


Dream of Autumn

by Heavy Henry (pelicanna)



Series: Heartbeat [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Musicians, Anxiety, Communication, Eventual Smut, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff and Angst, Katsuki Yuuri's unaddressed problem drinking, M/M, References to Depression, Spoilers: I'm gonna address it, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, self-indulgent silliness, yurio is the angriest kitten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelicanna/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry
Summary: Dream of Autumn: AKASonge d’Automne, AKA the library AU that no one wanted.  Who’s the librarian?  The answer may surprise you.  This is a completely self-indulgent and somewhat homesick love letter to New Orleans.  I also clearly can’t leave my work at home, so if you ever wanted to read Victor trying to flirt while explaining library policies, this is your kind of fic.  There’s a little smut and some angst, but it’s mostly fluff and arguments about cookware and trips to the dog park.UPDATE! 5/6/19 - there is now a playlist for this fic!https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pISUptxkSwfKSD76kQkdFI have no idea why this didn't occur to me from the start. Thanks to snarkybreeze for inspiring me to get my act together and do this. If you haven't read their stuff, please check it out.





	1. Songe d'Automne

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as “Songe d’Automne.” Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who read and commented and left kudos the first time around! Not much has changed from the first go-round, this is just it all cleaned up and “finished.” I fixed some inconsistencies and made some changes to accommodate some future plans. Since I wrote and posted in short bursts, I’ve reorganized some and I’m trying to get better about tagging. If you had commented previously and it was lost in the clean-up, I’m sorry! Please know that it was read and appreciated. Or if there are comments that don't apply to the chapter, that'll be why. Again, I'm sorry! I'm not smart enough with ao3 to figure out how not to do that. :( There will be more to come in this series. Currently in the works: a holiday party and a detour into Mila’s POV, the little New Year thing. And a ridiculous Highlander AU.
> 
> Comments give me life. Come yell at me: I'm snarkonice on tumblr and @heavyhenry2 on twitter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Nikiforov spends his days working the reference desk of his local public library and his nights trying to fan the fading flames of his musical career. Will a shy international student turn out to be the inspiration he needs?

Victor Nikiforov was bored. He was stuck at the Info Desk for another half hour and the library was dead. It wasn’t the good kind of dead that meant he could tune out and work on a project. It was the kind of dead punctuated by just enough annoying phone calls and routine computer assistance that kept him from focusing on anything else, but spaced out in a way that had his eyelids growing heavy. He perched on the tall task chair, staring toward the entrance and pretending to listen to Yurio. He was leaning against the desk complaining about something.

Again.

Victor’s finely honed instincts detected a furtive movement from the public computers. Oh god. Was he? Yes, he was. Hand in pants and rhythmic movements. Dealing with public masturbation was not a skill that was taught in library science classes. Victor had been forced to develop his own set of methodologies and best practices, even if those procedures were heavily influenced by schadenfreude and pettiness. 

“Eugene, darling. I can see you,” he drawled, from the corner of his mouth that wasn’t distorted by being propped on his fist. He smiled, a little cruelly, when Eugene’s shoulders jumped to his ears and he muttered as he hastily closed a browser window with a mutter. “I’m sorry, darling, I did not quite hear that.” Eugene just grumbled. Victor smirked and sat upright, stretching.

“Oh, gross,” Yurio groused, making an exaggerated gagging sound and ignoring Eugene’s glares. “Just kick him out, Victor. You know you can do that, right?”

“I know.” Victor replied simply. “I don’t think you really want me to start expelling every disreputable patron, do you?” He gave Yurio a look. “Eugene has never been followed in by truant officers or brought a poodle into the library, unlike some patrons I could name.”

That day had proven to be one of the best of Victor’s life. In Victor’s thirty years of experience, though, life-changing days rarely announced themselves in advance. It had been a rainy summer afternoon when Yurio found the pup, barely breathing, on the Elysian Fields neutral ground She had been hit by a car, which was nowhere to be seen. Yurio had tucked her, rain and blood and all, into his leopard print sweatshirt and biked all the way to the library like that. Security guards and irate maintenance staff had trailed the sodden teenager as he ran to the door of the reference office and banged on it, yelling Victor’s name. Victor had been stuck on the call center phone, bored again (it seemed to be a common occurrence), when he’d heard the commotion and came out to snoop. Yurio had damply grabbed his arms and begged him for a ride to the vet. He would have done it for Yurio’s big green eyes anyway, but then the dog had weakly licked at Victor’s hand when he reached out to pet her, and he was a goner. He’d barely had the presence of mind to shout, “Sara! I’m going home sick!” before herding Yurio out to his Subaru wagon. 

Yurio just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I think you still owe me big for that.”

“It is true, Makkachin is my beloved large son.”

“You still need me to walk her tomorrow, right?” Yurio asked, trying his best to sound like it was a imposition.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna have time before the show.” He actually could get home and to the bar in plenty of time, but dog-sitting gave Yurio an excuse to hang out at Victor’s house, eating his leftovers and using his bubble bath. He would have been welcome any time, but Yurio’s pride was a prickly thing.

Yurio wasn’t homeless, exactly. He surfed couches and crashed with friends. If he slept rough, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. Yurio had never volunteered any details, though, and much kicking and swearing had convinced Victor not to pry. His grandfather was in town, too, and Yurio adored him. He had raised Yurio after his parent’s deaths, but had suffered a major stroke a year ago. Unable to work, medically expenses promptly wiped out their savings, and they hadn’t been able to keep the apartment. Yurio had gone to live with a distant cousin, but that hadn’t worked out. Within a month, Yurio had moved out and made the leap from chronic truant to actual high school dropout. Now, when Yurio wasn’t drawing tourists in the quarter, or working on his GED from the computers in the public library (driving Victor crazy in the process), he was visiting the home, coaching his grandfather through his therapy. Victor didn’t mind paying Yurio’s exhorbitant “dog-walking” rate, because he knew that Yurio was saving every cent for a deposit on an apartment with room for him and his grandfather.

“Cool,” Yurio replied smugly. “Hey, check these out!” He yanked his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and shoved a picture in his face. Victor perked up: tattoo designs. Yurio’s other dream was to get a job as a tattoo artist, and Victor had done everything he could to encourage it. He’d talked to a couple of friends and done a little research and even gotten in touch with the owners of some local studios. They had expressed polite interest, but they wanted to see something resembling a portfolio before they were willing to invest the time in training someone.

Victor grabbed the phone. “Hey!” Yurio shouted, but Victor just shushed him (something librarians didn’t get to do nearly often enough in his opinion), and started scrolling through the photos.

“Yurio-sweetie! Amazing! These are…” oh. _OH_. He stopped and breathed a word, “Beautiful.”

“What?” Yurio said, nonplussed, craning across the desk to look at the image on the screen. It was a flying eyeball, trailing flames. “Uh, Victor?” He followed Victor’s gaze and rolled his eyes extravagantly. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Victor swallowed and passed the phone back to Yurio wordlessly, “Um,” he cleared his throat, “Hi! How can I help you today?”

The young man cautiously approached the desk, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I can wait my turn,” he said quietly, a hint of an accent in his voice. Japanese?

“Oh, no, is fine!” Victor said, “We were just wrapping up!” He plastered a professional smile on his face as Yurio’s glare threatened to set his lanyard on fire.

“Okay, um, well, I was just wondering about, um, the wifi? A-and printing,” he added. Victor cast an apologetic smile at Yurio who was already stalking away, middle finger raised. His patron looked between the two of them bemusedly. Victor made a mental note to stock the fridge with something extra special by way of apology, and turned back to the man at the desk.

Gorgeous was not quite a strong enough word. He was a couple of inches shorter than Victor and several years younger, maybe a lot of years younger, actually. Or perhaps it was just the air of uncertainty and trepidation that made him seem youthful. Of course, Yurio had that effect on people.

“Oh, don’t worry; that’s normal,” Victor said cheerfully. His customer looked dubious, his wide brown eyes worried behind a pair of charming blue glasses. He wet his lips with a flick of a tempting pink tongue. Ugh, Victor was being _so_ creepy right now. He forced himself to respond with only normal attentiveness to the question, “So, wi-fi, right? Okay, here’s the network name…” he fumbled with the stack of pre-printed slips, passing one across the desk. “No password, but there’s a terms and conditions thing that doesn’t always pop up immediately.” He waved his hands vaguely. “If not, just type our website into the address bar,” he grabbed another bookmark, “Here. type that in, and it will do the thing.” He gestured and smiled again.

“Um, okay.” Mr. Charming Glasses looked at Victor then quickly down at the counter. Victor knew it was inappropriate, knew he was at work, but oh god, was this guy doing this on purpose? All these shy glances and small concerned smiles, combined with an undeniably athletic build that he seemed to be doing his best to hide with hunched shoulders and baggy clothes? It all added up to an infuriatingly erotic set of contradictions.

Victor wanted to grab that chin and make him meet his eyes. He wanted to touch that full lower lip and caress the hand that rested on the counter. Oh God. Was he blushing? Victor could feel the tips of his own ears warming. The young man looked up then, startling Victor, catching him staring. Oh right. He shook himself. There had been another question, hadn’t there?

“Um, printing?” His patron prompted with a wry look. Was that a smile? Maybe? Was he teasing him? He was probably just laughing at Victor, but he looked less worried, which was a nice change. 

“Oh, right. Da.” Victor flew into action, grabbing forms and cards, flinging a pen across the desk. He heard snickering behind him. Sara was here to take over. Victor refused to dignify her with a response, even if he would be late to lunch. “So, I’m guessing you don’t have library card, right?” He got a head shake in response. “Okay - fill in this form. Do you have driver’s license?”

“Um,” the patron paused, pen hovering over the form, “I just wanted to print a couple of pages?”

“Right, right, but you need library account to access wireless printer, so…” Victor paused. “Policy,” he shrugged, which was true. It was also true that he really, really wanted the guy to check something out, then to come back and return it, and maybe check something else out, and on and on. He slid the application forward with an apologetic smile.

The patron didn’t smile back. “Passport okay? For ID?” At Victor’s nod, he retrieved it from his backpack, then he just sort of set his jaw and started writing. Victor sighed internally and started entering the little bit of information he could glean from the passport. Katsuki Yuri was 27 and from Japan. He was a Capricorn. He did not photograph well.

Sara stepped up behind him and nudged him with an elbow. “I can finish up here, if you want to get to lunch,” she offered, a twinkle in her eye.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Yuri looked up, slight panic in his face, “I didn’t want to keep you from your break.” He looked genuinely distressed at the thought.

“Oh no, no problem!” Victor gestured placatingly. “I’ve got it Sara,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. She gave him a mischievous look before sitting down at the next PC and opening a genealogy database.

While he was sorely tempted to draw out the application process, Victor also didn’t want Yuri to think that he was incompetent. It was the saddest conflict he had ever faced. He gave Yuri the general instructions on using the wireless printing system, showed him how to add credit to his account and was disappointed when Yuri turned down his offer to point him toward some recreational reading. Yuri’s fingers brushed his as he handed over the new card. Bells sounded, harps played, angels were singing and unicorns were...barfing? What?

“Hey Victor!” Yurio was yelling from the direction of the public restrooms. “Some guy is puking all over the floor in here!” 

Katsuki Yuri broke eye contact first, eyes widening as he looked toward the commotion.

“Excuse me,” Victor sighed, dialing maintenance. “Sara can help if you need anything else,” he said, and reluctantly turned away.

~~

Katsuki Yuri was feeling overwhelmed. He had danced with the National Ballet of Japan since his late teens and, at 27, he was realizing just how much support he had been taking for granted. Certainly, he was hardly sheltered. He had traveled the world performing, he was a respected professional and all-around functional adult. He had spent years trying to learn to manage his anxiety, his finances were budgeted to the yen, his diet was regimented and nourishing, his training routine rigorously maintained. He could navigate customs and order coffee in no less than twelve languages (that was the limit of his knowledge in all but three of them, but he was still proud of that). It had been years since he had felt the raw panic that swept through him as he attempted to navigate the mountain of paperwork generated by his enrollment in graduate school.

His papers were strewn in complete disarray over the surface of the table. There were promissory notes, schedules, visa forms, lease agreements and a mountain of miscellaneous paperwork advertising various “fun” student activities, as if anything that could possibly require him to make a decision could be construed as “fun” at this point. He had availed himself of the International Student Union’s offer to connect him with housing and a roommate, which had helped, but a couple of emails didn’t totally conquer the Completely Reasonable fear of meeting complete strangers with whom he would be expected to live in close proximity. 

Despite his catastrophizing, though, everything was going smoothly. His landlord and upstairs neighbor was a sweet older woman named Rosie, who was happy to rent to a couple of studious young people. He thought she said she was a retired librarian at Loyola, but in his self-absorbed panic, he might not have been the most attentive listener. The few times he’d been brave enough to ask her to repeat herself or had descended into the depths of his distraction, he’d been able to attribute it to the nonexistent language barrier and not poor manners.

It was a nice apartment, with low ceilings, plaster walls, and a cozy atmosphere. The living room was small, but the kitchen was surprisingly spacious. Yuri had claimed one bedroom, and had stored anything addressed to his roommate in the other bedroom. He had been reluctant to unpack too much in case they wanted to trade. According to the last email, the much-anticipated roommate would be arriving any minute, and it was ever so slightly possible that this fact was contributing to his current attack of anxiety.

Yuri looked up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A car door and light feet on the stairwell above his front door was a relief and a terror all at once. He stopped trying to focus on the promissory note in front of him and strained for any snippets of conversation that he might be able to overhear. All he could catch was light laughter and chatter. The energetic steps descended the stairs again, followed by the slower steps of Rosie. Yuri stood when the sound paused outside of the door. He could hear the jingle of keys and then a quick laugh and the unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking. Yuri fought the urge to flee as he heard the key slide into the lock. His second of indecision was too much, though, and Yuri was left trying to look normal and relaxed as the door swung open, but instead he knew he looked like he’d been caught molesting livestock.

“Yuri?” Rosie spotted him.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Coffman,” he replied, hoping his voice didn’t crack audibly.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t make a habit of barging in. I just wanted to introduce Pi-”

“Phichit Chulanont,” the young man behind her corrected smoothly, extending his hand, “Sawatee krap!”

“Konnichiwa, I’m Yuri” he replied, shaking Phichit’s hand. Phichit was grinning broadly as he surveyed the small front room.

“This is excellent! So comfy! Ooh! Big kitchen,” he exclaimed as he continued to explore. He bounced back up to Yuri, phone in hand. “Roommate selfie,” he explained, dragging Yuri close and grinning into the camera. Yuri flashed a reflexive peace sign, still stunned as Phichit whirled around the quiet apartment like a tiny Thai typhoon. Heh. _Thai-phoon_. Yuri started to relax. If his brain was coming up with puns, he would probably survive this.

“Okay, then, you boys let me know if you need anything,” Rosie said.

Phichit bounded back into the front room and wrapped the older woman up in a hug, “Thank you, Rosie!” He waved as she left, then turned around, and his smile faded as he noticed Yuri’s face, which was probably looked a bit stunned. He smiled more tentatively, “Don’t worry, I’m not always quite this bad. I’ve just been on the road since yesterday morning. I’ve had _so much_ Red Bull.”

Yuri nodded, “Here, let me show you around.” To his immense relief, Phichit was thrilled with the room that Yuri had left for him, sprawling immediately on the bed with a bounce.

“So, you’re from Japan?”

“Yeah, from a small town in Kyushu, but I’ve been in Tokyo for the last ten years.” Oh, right, he reminded himself to ask a reciprocal question, “Are you Thai?”

“Yup! But I came over for college five years ago. I went to the University of Michigan, and then I lived in Detroit for a year. I finally got tired of being cold, so here I am!”

“Do you have more stuff to bring in?”

“Mmhm,” Phichit nodded, leading the way to his car, “So, what are you studying? I’m MFA in Tech God-hood.” He winked over his shoulder, “I know: it’s absolutely shocking that I'm a theater person. It took me a while to realize that I like being behind the stage more than being on it.” He grabbed a mountain of clothes in colors that Yuri would never have dared to wear offstage. “What about you?”

Yuri found himself starting to smile, just a little, “Interdisciplinary Dance,” he said, hefting a cardboard box from the hatch of Phichit’s purple Geo Metro. “I was with the National Ballet of Japan for a while.” 

”Oh yeah? In the corps, or..?”

”Uh, I’ve been a principal for about seven years.” A loud crash startled him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” Phichit said, picking up his box again. “That’s seriously high level. No offense, but why..?”

It took Yuri a moment to formulate an answer. “Well, I’m not sure I want to keep dancing, honestly. Maybe not ballet, at any rate. I got hurt, and I guess I’m a little burned out. I need to find some kind of inspiration again.”

“Whoa. You’re on, like a soul-quest or something. That’s deep.” They plopped the boxes down on Phichit’s bed. “Okay, Super Important Question Time.”

Yuri cringed. He’d already said more than he intended about himself.

"First: pronouns?"

Yuri hadn’t given the topic much thought. "Uh, normal guy ones, please."

Phichit nodded, "Cool, I prefer they/them."

"Oh, okay, are you, um -"

"Well, if you're into labels, I would call myself a genderqueer ace." Phichit, looked closely at him, "Are you gonna be weird about it?"

"Oh, no, that's cool. I'm, uh, not straight myself," Yuri replied, "And I'll definitely be weird, it's unavoidable, but not about that."

"That's cool, then."

"So, was that the super important question?"

“No, that was general housekeeping and good manners. The important thing is: I may have some, um, contraband in my luggage.” At Yuri’s panic stricken face, Phichit waved their arms frantically. “No, no, not like that! Well, um, actually, yeah, like that, but you can pretend like you don’t know about it and I promise never to smoke when you’re around,” they babbled.

“No, no, that’s okay, I was picturing, like, guns or something harder. You made it sound so serious.” Yuri blushed furiously, feeling silly.

“Wow. I thought I had a wild imagination,” Phichit replied, watching Yuri closely. “I mean, it is _super_ serious, like, life or death style, though. I was talking about pets.”

“Oh,” Yuri loved dogs, but he was pretty sure the lease didn’t allow them, and he wasn’t sure he could cope with a snake or lizard or, well, anything with those dead reptilian eyes.

Phichit reached into the breast pocket of their v-neck and extracted something small and furry. Then they reached into the side pockets of their hoodie and pulled out two more hamsters.

Yuri gaped at them. “Have those been in there all this time?”

“Yup! This one is Horst Buchholz,” Phichit chirped happily, stroking a black and white one between the ears. “So…can you keep a secret?”

Yuri nodded, incapable of speech.

“Great!" Phichit gave him a conspiratorial look, "So, should we be responsible and unpack, or should we go the the Quarter and get wasted?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songe d'Automne: Django Reinhardt


	2. Hurricane Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that the shy grad student can _dance_.

Yuri was back at the library on Friday. He and Phichit had finally gotten wifi set up at the apartment, but hadn’t gotten around to buying a printer. He was beginning to wonder whether it was even worth it, with the price of toner. There was also the slightest possibility that he didn’t mind going to the library. He had been told that there were branch libraries all over town, even one within walking distance of his apartment. He didn’t _have_ to come all the way downtown, but he had already learned where things were at the Main Branch. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with a particular staff member. Nothing at all. Besides, once the semester started he’d have access to the campus computer labs anyway, and then he probably wouldn’t be back.

Victor was at the Information Desk. He’d been on the phone when Yuri came in, but had looked up from his work and smiled warmly as he passed. Victor smiled a lot. He was also tall and striking with long, graceful fingers and startling blue eyes beneath that improbable silver hair. He was as dapper today as he’d been before, but he had traded yesterday’s blazer for an emerald sweater vest over a perfectly fitted button down. He was wearing dark wash jeans that complimented his long legs. Or, at least, Yuri imagined they would. Victor was sitting down behind a desk. Yuri couldn’t see his legs, so why was he imagining them? This was apparently his version of casual Friday. 

Yuri set up his laptop at a table within easy eyeshot of the desk. He needed to print out directions to the graduate student mixer tonight. Yuri wasn’t sure that he was a “mixer” type of person, but he had promised his sister that he would do something outside of his comfort zone at least once a week for his first few months in New Orleans. He actually had two “outside of his comfort zone” things under consideration for tonight. One of them sounded like much more fun, but also much more terrifying than a student mixer, though.

The Newcomb College Institute Graduate School, though, was small and interdisciplinary projects were strongly encouraged, so making contacts with student’s in other disciplines might be necessary for his success. That was, after all, why he was here. At 27, recovering from stress fractures to his tibias, and fighting heavy burnout, Yuri knew that after seven years as a principal dancer with the National Ballet of Japan he was ready to put some serious thought into the kind of shape he wanted to give his future. 

While the performance career of a professional dancer was potentially longer than that of, say, a competitive figure skater, Yuri was well aware that he needed to find something to inspire him. Maybe a Masters in Interdisciplinary Dance Performance would revive his love of the art. He was conflicted. His life had revolved around performance for so many years that he felt adrift without the grind of the regular season, but he new that his body would benefit from a slight respite. He didn’t expect to take a complete break from performing: Dr. Cialdi, the dean of the College of Dance had already approached him about contributing a piece to the fall recital, and he knew that he would somehow get roped into the Nutcracker, even if he was just wrangling children, but even that would be restful by comparison.

It helped that the school offered a generous assistantship and stipend. The promise of teaching courses in ballet and choreography to undergraduates would help him decide if that was a path he wanted to pursue, and the chance to explore some more academic pursuits would let him flex some long-neglected intellectual muscles. All of this was made even more appealing by the fact that the school was in New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz. Yuri had fallen into passionate love with jazz in high school when a friend had recruited him into a short lived experimental dance troupe. They had performed in collaboration with an improvisational jazz quintet. It remained some of the most purely fun dancing he’d ever done, and he was eager to work on artistic projects outside the relatively strict boundaries of classical ballet that he had focused on to the exclusion of all else for the last ten years. Even more important on a personal level, at least, was Yuri’s desire to find himself as an artist and as a person. His work and training had consumed his life from a relatively young age. His recent injuries had forced him to reevaluate his priorities and realize that he had little life and even less passion outside of work. Living in an accepting community and surrounding himself with students and fellow artists could only help, right? 

He shook himself from his musings and caught Victor’s eye. Had he been looking at Yuri? Worse, had Yuri been staring? He had a tendency to zone out like that, letting his eyes land on whatever they wished, and his stupid traitorous eyes had already decided that they liked Victor, very much. He darted his gaze back to his screen, feeling his cheeks warm. He peeked up again after a few minutes. Victor was smiling now, chatting with that skinny blond kid who’d been at the desk the other day. Victor sure smiled a lot. It was weird.

Yuri sent his maps to the printer. After much consideration he’d sent both maps: directions to the grad student mixer and another. He’d spent far too long angsting over whether or not to print the second map, but he finally bit the bullet and hit enter, reasoning that simply knowing how to get there did not mean he had to go.

He wandered over to the printer, scanning his card to retrieve his documents. Victor had moved to the bank of public computers and was leaning over the shoulder of an elderly patron, pointing out something on the screen. She asked a worried sounding question and he replied seriously, giving her shoulder a supportive squeeze. She put her hand over his and patted it softly. Victor laughed softly at something she was saying, his face soft with kindness.

“Hey asshole.” Yuri dropped his phone and library card, his earbuds yanked unceremoniously out of his ears as his phone bounced on the carpet. He scrambled on the floor after his things, only to find a foot clad in a garish animal print sneaker resting atop his phone. He followed the foot up a skinny leg in torn black jeans to the irritated face of the blond kid. “You gonna print something, or you just gonna stand here and eye-fuck the librarian?”

Wow. “Um, all yours, sorry,” he said, grabbing his documents. As he paused nearby to arrange his things he noticed the kid watching him. When he looked over, those narrow green eyes snapped away while a pale hand passed him his phone. “Thanks,” he said, then on impulse added, “I’m Yuri, by the way, Katsuki Yuri. Are you a student, too?”

The kid’s glare raked over him skeptically, “Tch,” he scoffed, “No.” He looked at the printer which was spitting out page after page of photographs of tigers, then over at the computers and then back at Yuri’s extended hand. “Fine,” he grumbled, shaking Yuri’s hand, “I’m Yuri, too, Yuri Plisetsky, but everybody calls me Yurio.”

"Why?"

"Probably because they're dumb. How the hell should I know?" Yurio grabbed his printouts, not seeming to care that he was crumpling them, and stalked back to a table by the window.

~~

Yuri had taken off by the time Victor got back to the desk. He was disappointed about this for no good reason. He had been considering saying something, trying to start a conversation about something other than wifi, maybe a casual slip that he was playing a show later tonight, maybe a question about what had brought Yuri to the city. He could offer to, _what_ , point him toward some restaurants? He sighed, tapping his lips thoughtfully, probably an unsanitary habit in a public library. Of course, this was all terribly inappropriate, and besides, he didn’t even know that Yuri was gay. Sure, he set off Victor’s gaydar, with his blushes and coquettish smiles, but sometimes Victor’s Wishful Thinking Doppler produced a false positive.

Yurio stalked over to him at the desk. “Bitch stole my name,” he complained loudly, hooking a thumb at the front doors. Victor smiled internally.

“So, you met Yuri? Were you nice?”

“Of course.” Yurio held up one hand, mimicking the boy-scout salute and looking angelic. “I caught him being a creeper, though. Just thought you should know as, like, a concerned citizen of the library.” His face was as serious as Victor had ever seen it, which was a little alarming. Victor would be _so_ disappointed if his patron crush turned out to be a problem. His concern faded as Yurio’s tone went salacious. “Yeah, he was standing at the printer just, like, drooling, and looking at the computers. I think he’s got the hots for Mrs. Metoyer over there.” Victor started and looked at the nonagenarian who was bending close to the screen, probably still trying to download her sister’s death certificate.

He glared at Yurio, “Have I ever told you that you’re kind of a brat?”

Yurio laughed triumphantly. “Gotcha. But, seriously, he was watching you the whole time you were back there. And I was only mostly kidding about the drool.” He rolled his eyes. “It was gross as hell, but since I’m such an altruist, I wanted to let you know.”

“You are truly an angel,” Victor replied, overly sweetly. “Whatever would I do without you?" 

"Feed you own dog, probably."

Victor grimaced, "Yeah, thank you for that. The key’s in the usual spot, and there’s some leftover pasta stuff in the fridge. And ice cream.” Yurio pumped his fist in triumph. “Give Makkachin a whole can of wet food. She gets a treat tonight.”

Yurio rolled his eyes. “That dog gets a treat every night. She looks like a potato.”

~~

Thanks to Yurio, Victor had spare time before he was due to play in a hotel lounge somewhere on Royal, so he treated himself to a plate of jollof rice at Bennacchin on his way there. It was hot - it was August in New Orleans, of course it was hot - and he briefly debated the wisdom of stopping by his house for a shower, or better yet, the Country Club for a quick dip, but instead he just stripped down to his undershirt, stashing his button-down and sweater-vest in his messenger bag, and figured he’d be sweaty by the end of his set no matter what.

Tonight, he was doing his best Joe Pass impression, accompanying one of the many area vocalists on a tidy little set of jazz standards designed to provide perfectly inoffensive character for the tourists. He enjoyed working with Janine, and the set was a success, but he couldn’t deny that he was essentially sleepwalking through “Do You Know What it Means (to Miss New Orleans)” by the end of the evening. It had been too long since his playing had been anything other than work: something he did to make sure his performance skills stayed sharp and to keep his name out there. Sometimes he wondered whether it was worth it. When he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel like he could call himself an artist anymore. He was simply a very competent musical technician. He already had a job, one that provided benefits and normal work hours. Maybe he should take Liliane’s offer seriously. He could go full-time, make some more money. Did he need to continue to play if he wasn’t passionate about it?

He had been, once. When he’d first come to New Orleans in his early 20s, he had been afire with the novelty of his new life. He’d put together a nice little Euro-jazz combo, and they’d done well, a combination of standards and Victor’s original compositions. They’d even toured all over the Gulf Coast. He’d been in love, with the city, with his music, with a series of inattentive men, and he’d poured all of that love into several albums and a European tour.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment it went sour. It was a gradual slide into mundanity rather than anything catastrophic. Somewhere along the way, music became a job, and he decided that maybe, if he had a real job, that would somehow make music fun again. That led to graduate school online, and that eventually led to the public library, and Victor learned that a job would not magically make him more passionate about his art. It turned out that having a job just made him tired and grumpy.

Victor sent Janine off with a hug and a promise to download her new album. He had tomorrow morning off and knew that Makkachin was in good, if grouchy, hands, so he decided that he deserved a reward. He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and headed off, enjoying the night humidity on his bare shoulders, and inhaling that particular French Quarter funkiness that was not a pleasant smell, but was still somehow the smell of home. The debauchery of Bourbon Street wasn’t really his scene, although he had certainly indulged plenty when he was new in town, but it was fun to dip a toe in every now and then. He found himself heading for the unmistakable rainbow flags of The Oz.

The doorman was a glorious specimen of beefcake, and Victor felt a little thrill of pleasure as he paid the cover out of his share of tips. He headed straight to the bar and was pleased to see the bleached tips that meant that his gamble had paid off; Chris was bartending tonight.

He smiled widely when he recognized Victor, and graciously agreed to stash his guitar behind the bar. “I see we’ve earned tickets to the gun show, Nikiforov!” he exclaimed, hugging Victor and playfully leaning across the bar to squeeze his bicep. “To what do we owe this very pale pleasure?”

“To a heat index of 110, of course.”

“I’m amazed that your tundra assets have not melted clean away. The usual?”

Victor nodded. Christophe was a habitual flirt even when he wasn’t working for tips. When Victor had first arrived in the city he and Chris had enjoyed a brief fling, but their dalliance had come to an amicable end fairly quickly, leaving them fast friends. Chris poured him a generous tumbler of ice cold vodka and declined payment with a wink. Victor tipped more than the drink was worth and leaned over to hear Chris talk.

“Anything exciting happening tonight?” Victor had to yell to be heard over a techno remix of Doja Cat’s “Moo.”

“Just the usual madness,” Chris shouted back. “You missed the Queens. Coco Mesa was in excellent form.” He looked thoughtful, “Bunch of college girls came through a while back,” he said with an expressive eye roll. “Oh, and I heard some kid’s giving the go-go dancers a run for their money on the dance floor.” Victor smiled. The Oz was always good for a night of quality people watching. A couple of beardy men in guayaberas and straw hats motioned to Chris. “Excuse me, darlin’,” he dismissed Victor with a wave and hurried to the other end of the bar.

Victor sipped his drink and wandered off, aiming vaguely for the dance floor. Sure enough, the usual mass of dancers had formed into a cheering ring around an open space. He edged closer to see what held their attention, only to quickly step back to avoid a flying foot. Chris hadn’t been joking. Two men were engaged in a furious breakdance battle. One wore the black briefs of the Oz’s regular go-go boys, but accessorized with rainbow suspenders. Victor recognized the auburn hair and silly little beard by sight, though he didn’t know the guy well - Emil or something like that. Victor suspected that it was actually something less exotic, a Bradley or a Jacob, maybe. What’s his name was certainly giving it everything he had, sweat gleaming on his bare shoulders as he kipped to his feet and moonwalked to the side of the dance floor. His challenger, meanwhile, looked like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a very corporate striptease. He was wearing a very boring white oxford shirt and an almost offensively pedestrian baby-blue tie. The shirt was unbuttoned and the tie loose and he had lost his pants somewhere along the way, but was still wearing black dress socks and a pair of red boxer briefs. He was balanced on one hand, legs extended to the ceiling, perfect musculature cast into stark relief by the colored lights of the club. He held that improbable position for a long frozen moment, then he began to spin, legs flared toward the ceiling, spinning from one hand to the other before rolling across his back to balance in some other gravity-defying pose. Victor was mesmerized. He was beautiful, uninhibited, graceful, erotic, and Victor’s mind ran out of hyperbolic descriptors far too quickly to do justice to the performance. Emil (or whatever) gave up, laughing, and moved to join the watching crowd.

“If I’m not careful, this guy’ll put me out of a job,” he commented, coming to stand next to Victor, who just nodded, mouth dry. The dancer didn’t even seem to have noticed that his competition had tapped out. He was back on his feet, whirling in a balletic tornado, concentration written all over his face, which was suddenly familiar, even without his endearing eyewear.

Oh. Oh god. It was Katsuki Yuri, his library crush. This was a surprising turn of events, to put it mildly. Yuri was spinning, a series of beautifully controlled pirouettes without a pause for breath or equilibrium. “I think he’s had some practice,” he commented hoarsely to Emil, who just laughed.

“I just pray he doesn’t notice the pole. I’d hate to be beaten on my home turf.” Victor could only nod again as that erotic vision filled his head. Victor very much hoped Yuri noticed the pole. Instead, Yuri noticed Victor and stumbled slightly. His mask of concentration broke into a sunny smile and he shouted something in Japanese, bounding over to Victor and grabbing his hand, dragging him onto the floor to much laughter. The circle started to break up and return to the more general dancing and grinding the Oz was known for. Emil elbowed him encouragingly and wandered off. The DJ had switched gears to electro-swing, and Victor followed Yuri to the dance floor. Yuri gave him a challenging look over his shoulder, hips moving to the rhythm. He raised his hands over his head to clap in time, and Victor found himself drawn to him like a staticky piece of lint. He reached his right hand out, spinning Yuri around, his left hand seeking Yuri’s. He pulled Yuri, sweaty and bare chested, against himself and took a minute to settle into the beat, enjoying the slight height difference that left Yuri gazing up at him before he rock-stepped back in classic Lindy-hop style. Yuri took a second to look startled, then pleased, and they were off. Victor was only a little rusty, but it wasn’t long before his days as president of the University swing dance club came back to him. Yuri was an ideal dance partner, responding instantly to the music and to Victor’s cues. He followed Victor’s lead effortlessly, like they’d been dancing together for years. As they song ended, Yuri fell into his arms, breathless. Victor laughed and guided them over to a table.

“That was great,” Yuri sighed, slumping into a chair, pink cheeked and sweaty. Now that they were still, Victor could see the underlying paleness in his skin and a hint of glassiness in Yuri’s wide brown eyes. The difference between his shy library patron and this dancing fool suddenly made much more sense.

“Here, let me get us some water,” Victor offered, _and your pants_. He took a circuitous route around the dance floor looking for any discarded items of clothing. He made it back to the bar where Chris waved him over.

“Looking for these?” he winked, holding up a pair of black chinos by the belt. Victor nodded ruefully. “So, you know him?”

Victor shrugged, “He’s been in the library a few times.”

Chris gave him a look, “If you look at all your patrons like that, buddy, then there’s some _#metoo_ action coming your way.” Victor felt the bridge of his nose going hot. Chris handed over a couple of water bottles. “I hate to be the mean bartender, and I don’t want to put you on the spot, but between you and me, I think it’s time for him to call it a night, and I’d feel better if I knew someone would look out for him. I don’t know how he’s upright, never mind dancing, with what he’s had.”

“Weren’t you just accusing me of being a creeper? Are you sure he’ll be safe with me?”

Chris rolled his eyes, “Vitya, I know your Russian ass knows how to call Lyft. Just makes sure he gets home, okay?” Victor nodded and headed back to the table. 

Yuri had his head down on the table, arms hanging limply at his sides. He looked up when Victor approached. “Hey, my librarian is back,” he mumbled, then followed it with something indecipherable, possibly in Japanese, but it was slurred enough that Victor couldn’t be sure.

“Here,” Victor handed him a water bottle. Yuri looked at it suspiciously then chugged half of it at once. When he set it back down with a gasp, Victor handed him the pants. “Come on, Yuri. It’s time to go home.” Yuri took the pants but just held them for a minute.

“Home?” he asked blearily.

“Yeah,” Victor said, hands in pockets, even though he really wanted to smooth the black bangs off of Yuri’s forehead.

“Home is really far away.” Yuri commented.

“That’s okay, I’ll get a Lyft for you. What’s your address?” Victor asked, pulling out his phone. Uptown somewhere, he dimly remember from Yuri’s library card.

Yuri mumbled something in Japanese.

Victor tried again. “Yuri, where do you live?”

“Oh god. Um, I don’t feel very good,” Yuri complained, dropping his head back to the table. The evening seemed to have caught up to him all at once. Victor sighed and yanked back the pants that were hanging uselessly in Yuri’s hands. He extracted a wallet, with more cash than was safe, but no driver’s license. He shoved it back into the pocket and went looking for a cell phone. The lock screen was Baryshnikov and Hines in White Nights. Victor smiled a little and shoved the phone into Yuri’s hands.

“Here. Is there anyone you can call?”

Yuri shook his head. “No. I just....Oh god, I think I’m gonna…” Victor grabbed his arm and bodily hauled him to the nearest trash can where he left him puking noisily. Chris gave Victor a pointed _get-him-out-of-here_ look when he reclaimed his guitar. Victor groaned and pulled up the Lyft app.

He wrestled the uncooperative Yuri back into his pants, slung his guitar case over one shoulder and Yuri’s arm over the other, and gave Chris a sarcastic salute on his way out. He’d requested the Lyft to meet him on the quiet end of Bourbon Street, so they had a couple of blocks to walk. Yuri’s arm was a warm heavy weight on Victor’s shoulders as he stumbled along beside him. He would say something occasionally in Japanese and then pause, clearly expecting a response. Victor replied in Russian. Yuri found this hilarious and it became a game as they walked. They carried on a very pleasant imaginary conversation, at least from Victor’s perspective. It was a shame that Yuri would not remember much of the night, because parts of it had been very nice.

The Lyft picked them up outside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, and Victor bundled Yuri into the backseat, begging again for his address, but all he got in return was a mumble. _Fine, then._ He gave his address to the driver, who passed Victor a bleachy smelling plastic garbage can with a meaningful look and drove off toward St. Claude. He was clearly a veteran of Bourbon Street pickups.

As he unlocked the door, he could hear Makkachin greet them with a bark followed by a growly “Shut up dog!” from Yurio. Predictably, Yurio was sprawled on the couch rubbing his eyes, Terminator 2 on the TV. He’d apparently fallen asleep.

Victor shuffled in through the door, shoving Makkachin aside with one leg as he maneuvered a semi-conscious Japanese man inside. The poodle was, of course, thrilled to have a new and interesting-smelling stranger around and was dancing around Yuri barking and jumping and hindering any sort of forward progress.

Victor’s house had originally been a small store that had been converted into a house, then remodelled into an event space after Katrina. Victor had spent the last three years converting back into a home. The front room had been a reception hall but, for Victor, who loved to entertain, it was the perfect gathering space. He’d added a large open plan kitchen at the back in what had originally been a bar area. Behind that was a hall that led to the bedroom and bathrooms. 

Victor dropped Yuri into the armchair by the door where he immediately melted into a human shaped puddle. Yurio was sitting up by now, gaping at him, turning comically from Victor to Yuri and back.

“Jesus Christ, Victor, when I said he liked you, I didn’t mean you should drug him and drag him home,” he finally snarked once he had collected himself.

“Yeah, well, this wasn’t my first choice.” Victor replied, walking to the kitchen and mixing up a couple of glasses of gatorade.

“So, why the fuck is he here?” Yurio asked pointedly.

“After my set, I went over to the Oz.”

“Classy,” commented Yurio, but Victor ignored him, chugging one of the glasses and downing a preventative ibuprofen..

“Christophe says he loves you, too. Anyway, ran into Yuri, he had too many, and I guess now I guess I’m taking care of him.” 

Yurio rolled his eyes, presumably at Victor’s idiocy. “Whatever. I’m not giving up this sweet-ass couch, though. He has to sleep somewhere else.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll stick him in the bed.”

“That’s creepy, dude.”

“Not with me! I’ll sleep out here on the air mattress.”

“Whatever. You better not snore,” Yurio threatened.

“Come on, help me get him in bed.”

“Tch. no fuckin’ way,” Yurio scoffed. “I’m _so_ not going to be implicated in any of this when he wakes up and freaks the fuck out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurricane Season: Trombone Shorty


	3. Do I Move You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor consults Google, Yuri consults his record collection. No one communicates like an adult.

Yuri woke up with a mouth that tasted like literal death and a headache that made him wish he was literally dead. Other than that, he was surprisingly comfy. He cautiously opened his eyes only to immediately close them. He didn’t recognize the room at all. He could feel the panic rising, eclipsing his hangover.

Okay, he had to calm down and think. Last night, what had happened? The mixer had been fine, even good. He’d even made some friends, mostly because Phichit somehow already knew everyone through the miracle of Instagram. By some strange chance, Yuri found that he and Dean Cialdi had a mutual friend in Minako Okukawa, who had been his ballet teacher as a child.

What had happened next? High off of his social success, he had gone to the French Quarter and sought out “New Orleans’s #1 Gay Dance Club.” He had enjoyed a drag show, had tried to flirt with the blond bartender, had a few drinks, then a few more. The rest was dark water with occasional images bobbing above the waves before disappearing again. There was dancing, a lot of dancing. He could remember breakdancing pretty clearly, a dance battle. He hoped he had won. He also got occasional flashes of Lindy Hop, which seemed like a weird thing to do at a gay bar. After that, nothing.

Oh god, had he gone home with someone? He took a quick physical inventory: he was still wearing his boxer briefs, socks, and shirt, which was somewhat comforting. He was slightly sore, but, like, _dancing_ sore not _fucking_ sore. He looked around, but without his glasses all he got was a general impression of clear sunlight and bright colors. He sat up and waited for his head to stop spinning. Some cautious fumbling on a nightstand, located his glasses, along with his wallet and cell phone. There was also a full glass of something bright orange, which smelled like a sports drink of some variety, and a couple of ibuprofen. Someone had also thoughtfully left a trash can beside the bed. He gratefully chugged the entire contents of the glass and swallowed the pills before gingerly standing up. His pants were neatly folded on a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed next to his shoes and a folded towel.

Well, if someone had brought him home and taken advantage of his incapacitated state, they had certainly been polite about it. Panic was rapidly giving way to embarrassment. A doorway led to a pleasant bathroom where Yuri relieved himself and splashed water on his face in an attempt to feel more human. He didn’t brave more than a quick glance in the mirror as he rinsed his mouth with some Listerine he found. He put on his pants and restored his possessions to the pockets. He decided not to bother with the tie.

Tentatively he approached the door. He could hear soft voices behind it and faint music. There was a smell of cooking and even coffee. He squared his shoulders, shoving down any queasiness, and opened the door. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it definitely wasn’t Yurio, the punk kid from the library, lounging on a worn leather couch and making silly faces at a brown standard poodle.

“You look like a Mormon,” was the first thing Yurio said, before returning his attention to the dog, “Doesn’t he, Makka, yes he does, Yuri looks like a hungover Mormon and you’re a good dog, yes you are.”

“Um,” Yuri replied, eloquent as ever.

“Oh, you’re up!” Yuri winced as he recognized the voice: the pleasant, cheerful, _Russian_ voice. If a sinkhole could have opened beneath his feet at that moment, Yuri would have been absolutely thrilled. He was afraid to look, but he forced himself to face Victor, the librarian. Victor, _from the library_ , was standing, presumably in his own kitchen, barefoot, wearing plaid pants and an undershirt, and making breakfast. Yuri almost ran back to the bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, I’ve been better.” Yuri answered. Yurio snickered. “How did I…” he trailed off. Victor had just taken a sip of coffee, and looked thoughtful.

He swallowed and set down his mug. Even hungover, Yuri was mesmerized by the grace of the simple gesture. Victor was more muscular than his work clothes suggested, lean and toned, rather than bulky, but muscular all the same. “You mean you don’t remember?” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Of course you don’t.”

“I mean, I remember going to the Oz, and dancing, but after that…”

Yurio snorted but looked innocently at his sketchbook when Victor glanced in his direction.

“Well, you initiated quite the dance-battle,” they both ignored the choking sound from the couch, “But you, um, overindulged. I called a Lyft for you, but you wouldn’t tell me where you lived, so…” he gestured at the bedroom.

Yuri leaned forward. He had to ask, but he didn’t really want Yurio listening in. “Did we,” he whispered desperately, “you know?”

Victor waved his hands frantically, looking frightened, “Oh, no, no, no!” He was shaking his head emphatically, “I know it's still little bit creepy, but I slept over there!” He pointed to an air mattress in the corner.

“And he snored all night,” Yurio groused, padding into the kitchen and extending his mug demandingly at Victor who filled it from the white enamel coffee pot.

“So, um, Yurio, right? Do you live here?” Yuri asked.

“Tch,” Yurio scoffed. “I just dogsit when he goes out cruising.” He grinned wolfishly before returning to the couch and the dog. “Your owner’s a tramp, did you know that Makkachin? Yes he is!” The commentary was delivery in standard doggy baby talk, but Yuri could see Yurio eying Victor for a reaction.

Victor was looking innocently out the window and pretending he hadn’t heard anything. “Coffee?” he offered.

“I should...I should go,” Yuri said, shaking himself. The whole situation was just too weird. Did he imagine that Victor looked disappointed? In fairness, if Victor had been hoping for a fun night out, babysitting a drunk idiot probably wasn’t high on anyone’s list of desirable activities. “Um, where am I? For the Lyft, I mean.”

Victor rattled off an address and Yuri busily typed it into the app. He wondered it he could manage not to make eye contact with anyone until his ride got there. Victor clearly had other plans. He handed Yuri a travel mug full of coffee and something hot wrapped in a paper towel. Startled, Yuri looked up and met Victor’s gaze. His bright blue eyes were soft and his lips bore the gentlest smile Yuri had ever seen on another man, including Mr. Rogers, and he found himself leaning toward Victor. A hand came up to cradle Yuri’s chin, and without thinking about it, Yuri leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Victor caressed his jaw, running his thumb along Yuri’s lower lip. Yuri gasped, lips parting slightly. He could smell the garlic and peppers that Victor had been chopping. It shouldn’t have been sexy; nothing about this situation should have been sexy, but Yuri couldn't bring himself to care. He opened his eyes and his whole face warmed as Victor leaned close. “You’re beautiful when you dance, Yuri,” he breathed. His eyes searched Yuri’s face seriously for a moment, “Would you dance for me again, someday?” Victor's hand trailed along his jaw before he returned to the stove as if nothing had happened. Yuri stumbled a step back.

Yurio gagged elaborately from the couch.

~~

For once, fortune smiled on Yuri, and Phichit was out when he returned from his walk, er, Lyft, of shame. He jogged to the door and let himself in as quickly as his queasy state would permit. The last thing he wanted was to fend off a cheerful greeting from his landlady. As he leaned back against the door, he solemnly promised himself that this would be the last time. He rode this roller coaster with every hangover, though, and while sometimes he’d go months without overdoing it, eventually Yuri would find himself back in this position, feeling like death warmed over, unsure of what or who he might have done, with a mouth full of the taste of shame and failure. He had excellent willpower. His entire career was a testament to his discipline. Why was this one thing so hard to shake? Since his injury, Yuri had found that his drinking had taken on an edge of desperation that frightened him. At first, alcohol had been a useful tool, a helpful social lubricant, filing the sharp edges off his anxiety and helping Yuri survive the fundraisers and parties that he couldn’t avoid. Recently, though, he found himself relying on it more and more, and anxiety preceding social events had been replaced by anxiety after the fact. He could never be entirely sure what might have happened during a blackout.

Yuri stood under the hot water of the shower for a long time, his thoughts straying back to the broken images of the night before, trying to piece them back together. He found his thoughts straying back to Victor, to the warmth of his eyes. He touched his lips, trying to recapture the feeling of Victor’s thumb. His hand had been warm and dry, his touch gentle, but the skin of his fingertips was slightly hard, calloused. What kind of calluses did librarians get?

By the time the hot water ran out, he was willing to face the breakfast that Victor had gifted him. It turned out to be a cornmeal biscuit, studded with fresh jalapenos and sweet corn. It was delicious, even cool. The thermal mug had kept the coffee warm, though, and it was a chicory blend, so strong it was almost syrupy.

He used the paper towel to swipe up the crumbs from the countertop and noticed that there was something stiff inside. A business card. Victor’s business card. His heart gave a silly little flutter before he stamped on it. He just wants his mug back, he told himself firmly. _But he wants you to dance for him again,_ the flutter softly replied. Yuri adjusted his glasses and peered at the card closely, pulling out his phone to add the new contact. It wasn’t a library business card, he noticed suddenly. Over the silhouette of a guitar were the words “Victor Nikiforov - Musician” above a web address and some contact information. Yuri stopped breathing. Victor...Victor’s last name was Nikiforov. He had gotten drunk and gone home with Victor Nikiforov. Victor Nikiforov worked at the public library. He had met _Victor Nikiforov_. He had made an ass of himself in front of Victor Nikiforov. The business card fluttered to the floor.

He stood and walked numbly to his record collection. Everything else was still in boxes, but his music and his turntable, had been among the first things he had unpacked, second only to his toothbrush. He paused, looking through the albums. There, _Stammi Vicino_ , by the Victory Quintet, the History Makers with Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov: Live at Birdland. This wasn’t possible. Victor Nikiforov was one of the greatest jazz guitarists of his generation, if not _the_ greatest, not some hot guy who worked at the public library. He was hardly a household name, but among jazz aficionados he was well known. He had played with Chick Corea, he had played with Chuck Mangione, he played with Stanley Clarke and with all of the Marsallis’s and several Nevilles. Yuri’s mind whirled. It had also been years since he had released an album or performed outside of New Orleans. Where he lived, in New Orleans. Where Yuri now lived. Where Yuri had somehow gotten drunk and gone home with a sexy librarian. Oh god, what if he had puked on Victor Nikiforov? He could never show his face at the library again, that much was certain.

Yuri crawled into bed and burrowed under the blankets. It would be a miracle if he ever went anywhere again.

~~

Victor Googled. He couldn’t resist. Most of the pages were in Japanese, but there were pictures. One Katsuki Yuri had been a principal dancer for seven seasons with the National Ballet of Japan. That explained a lot. He binge-watched Youtube footage of his performances, which explained more. He found a few videos of Yuri being interviewed by NHK reporters. He couldn’t understand any of it, but he watched them, all the same. Yuri was as confident on stage as he was awkward off of it. Victor had always enjoyed dance - he imagined most musicians did - but there was something about Yuri. He had a chameleon-like ability to embody any emotion, to contrast brash arrogance with deep vulnerability. Music seemed to flow through his body and thus become visible. Offstage, though, he was as Victor had seen him; shy, stammering, blushing, nervously fidgeting with his hair or his glasses. The contrast was fascinating.

Before he knew it, he was writing music again, his mind so full of the artistry of Yuri’s movement that he had to find a way to express it. His thoughts weren’t all high art, of course. Sometimes his mind would be so full of the memory of dancing with Yuri that he had to take a cold shower. He didn’t know what had brought Yuri to New Orleans. He didn’t particularly care, but in his most selfish moments he hoped that Yuri would stay.

But Yuri didn’t call him. Victor wondered if he had been too clever for his own good with his surprise business card. Perhaps Yuri hadn’t even found it. Then one day his mug came back to him in the interbranch delivery. That was clear enough. Yuri didn’t want to see him. Victor told himself that he would respect that. He hadn’t been left with nothing, a creative rejuvenation was worth a little heartache, after all. He wouldn’t seek out Yuri. He didn’t look for Yuri on every dance floor, or every time a patron walked through the door. He even stopped Googling. That resolution lasted a month. Then the flyer came. Anya Katzen dropped it off at the info desk, asking if he could stick it on the community bulletin board. Anya was a singer, with a sultry contralto that was perfect for jazz. She was wrapping up a Masters in Composition at Newcomb. They chatted briefly about gigs and recent performances, and swapped social media info with some vague plans of putting a show together sometime, it was always sometime. Then Victor looked at the flyer: “An Evening of Dance with the Newcomb Dance Company.” While he cringed at the word repetition, he couldn’t help but notice the little thumbnails of the student and faculty participants at the bottom of the poster. Katsuki Yuri, in a picture that was more like a mugshot than a headshot, was looking at him from the bottom of the page.

“Yurio, do you want to go to ballet with me next Friday?” he asked later that day, interrupting Yurio’s attempt to show him some new tattoo designs. It was a week before the show, but Victor was excited.

“To the whatnow?” Yurio replied.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s ballet, but it’s dance performance.”

“Uh, no. Why would you think I would want to do that?” Yurio replied, giving him an odd look.

“I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Juan’s?” Yurio asked.

“Da.”

“Not the boring NPR one in mid-city. I wanna go to the good one on Magazine.”

“Deal.”

“Brocato’s after?”

“Maybe.”

Yurio pretended to look thoughtful, but Victor had talked Yurio into much worse with the promise of food. “Okay, I’m in, as long as I don’t have to dress up.”

“Meet me at Juan’s at six.”

“You’re acting weird.”

~~

The rest of the week dragged. He worked boring desk shifts at the library, he approved a couple of copyright requests to use his recordings. He played a boring wedding and recorded a boring interview for WWOZ, but nothing made the time flow any faster. Victor found that he was running more than usual, as if he could make time move faster by moving his body faster. He also noticed that he was drinking more than usual, hoping to hasten sleep and the coming of the next day. A part of him recognized it as unhealthy. This was the same part that pointed out that Yuri knew how to reach him and that he hadn’t. Victor was beginning to wonder whether the connection he had felt to Yuri had only ever been completely one-sided.

He wasn’t accustomed to feeling so uncertain. Sure, Victor had been ghosted before: who hadn't? He wasn't used to being bothered by it, though. Yurio’s assertion that he was a tramp was, while a bit exaggerated, not entirely unfair. He was a popular gentleman and was free with his affections. He would have been happy, thrilled, even to fall into a forever kind of love, but something about him seemed to put a time limit on his relationships. He’d been told enough that he was too needy, too clingy, too dramatic. Eventually he’d gotten tired of hearing it, and had become skilled at holding himself back. Now, he was the aloof one, the one who ended things at the first sign of anyone getting too attached. It had been a long time since anyone had wanted to put up with him for a significant length of time. Yuri made him want to change that. Yuri made him feel like all of his internal organs had traded places, and it was both a surprisingly pleasant and absolutely terrifying sensation.

Eventually, common sense had prevailed, and Victor had talked himself out of going. Then, while lounging on the couch with Makkachin, he had received a text from an unknown number. “Please watch me,” it said, above a link to the Newcomb School’s calendar of events.

On Friday, Yurio was almost as keyed up as he was, albeit for his own reasons. “Get this! One of your friends actually came through.” Victor rolled his eyes at the emphasis on _actually_. “Some guy from Golden Eagle called. He wants me to come in starting tomorrow. He’s gonna pay me to deal with a bunch of dumb bullshit around the shop until I get good.”

The good news temporarily shook Victor out of his obsession. “Amazing! Yurio, that’s excellent news. Otabek’s…” Quiet? Intense? Brooding? “...Very talented. And probably very demanding.”

Yurio grinned. “That’s good. That just means I’ll learn faster,” he said confidently, then he glared at Victor as if he would disagree. He had no plans to, though. Whatever Yurio’s faults, his work effort was not to be called into question. “I know I’ll probably get stuck doing all the boring stuff for a while, but at least I’ll get paid.”

“So, maybe you should buy food tonight?”

“No way, old man. I’m going to the fucking ballet so you can creep on some foreign exchange student. This is almost as bad as the time you dragged me to the 20th anniversary tour of 'Rent.' You owe me _so many_ burritos for this.” He glanced at the menu again. “Buy me some guacamole,” he commanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nina Simone: Do I Move You?


	4. Waiting for the Earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri dances while Victor pines.

They decided to walk to the CAC, enjoying the New Orleans version of autumn, which really just meant a break in the unrelenting humidity. Despite Yurio’s insistence on a prolonged visit with a near feral tom cat lounging in a dry birdbath on Magazine Street, they got there a solid 20 minutes early. They wandered through the gallery, Yurio alternately bitching about and admiring the quality of the art in the current Works on Paper exhibit. Victor’s suggestion that he should have entered something was met with withering scorn and a reminder of the $70 application fee which segued into a lengthy diatribe about a show he had entered in Alexandria that still insisted on submissions on 35mm slides. Victor nodded along distractedly until he noticed a familiar figure standing behind Yurio and mimicking his scowl. He suppressed a smirk.

“Christophe! What brings you here?”

Yurio whipped around. “Oh, it’s you,” he groaned, then added more enthusiastically, “Hi, Massimo,” to Christophe’s more sedate counterpart. “How’re the cats?” Christophe watched fondly as Yurio and Massimo disappeared down the rabbit hole of Ethel and Bernadette’s Instagram account.

“I think your husband is the only human that Yurio likes.”

“He’s the only other human that speaks cat as fluently as he does,” Christophe commented, wrapping an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “I imagine I’m here for the same reason you are.” He grinned suggestively. “A certain Japanese dancer dropped off a flyer at the Oz, and I wanted to see what I had missed while I was stuck behind the bar.”

"And I wanted to see the legend," added Massimo. 

“Ah,” replied Victor, feeling distinctly less special.

“So…” Christophe prompted.

“So, we’d better find some seats,” Massimo contributed, checking his watch.

Victor gratefully accepted the change of subject and led the way into the theater, making sure to get a program.

Before it became too dim to read, he learned that he would have to sit through quite a lot of Yuri-free performances. He was, however, listed as choreographer of a piece early in the program. He only realized that he was jiggling his knee when Yurio hissed at him as the lights went down. He had thought that he would have to fight the impulse to count down until Yuri’s performance, but he was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the performances. Oh, certainly, Victor’s recent deep dive into the world of ballet had allowed him to spot some very derivative pieces, but there was also a lot of genuine artistry on display.

Even the most lackluster piece had a nice shimmer of youth and passion. Victor found himself engrossed in each performance. As the curtains closed on the hip isolations of a very Fosse-inspired hip-hop number, Victor stretched and glanced over at Yurio, who was doodling on his program. He didn’t understand how Yurio could see anything in the dim glow from the stage.

Victor froze as he recognized the music of the next piece. Christophe and Yurio managed to simultaneously elbow him from each side, as if he would somehow not notice that it was him. The song was _Stammi Vicino_. Victor had written it several years ago, and had conceived of it as an aria, but he had never performed it with a vocalist, and he was not sadistic enough to inflict his own singing on an audience. The lyrics languished in a notebook while he let his guitar do the singing.

The piece was performed by four students, two men and two women, all dressed in short white shifts. They began to move, spread out, separate. His first thought was that these must be very new performers, because their motions seemed stiff and uncertain at the beginning of the dance. Before long, though, it became apparent that this was exaggerated for artistic effect. As the song continued, the dancers moved closer, intertwining hands and legs, dancing in unison before splitting apart again into solos, the group welcoming the dancer back each time with caresses and fleeting touches. With every brush of hands the movements became stronger, more fluid, more confident. The dancers spun in a circle, swirling into a tight mass before blooming outward with great leaps and spins before contracting again. This expansion and contraction repeated, the beating of a heart, the blooming of a flower, until they exploded again to the four corners of the stage where they froze, exultant, before a simple bow and a graceful jog offstage..

“Huh. That one was okay, I guess,” Yurio grudgingly commented from his right, under the cover of applause. Victor held his program up, straining to read in the dim light. His instinct was correct. Katsuki Yuri was listed as the choreographer.

Victor had trouble sitting through the next piece. It was probably very nice, but it suffered, in Victor’s estimation, by being sandwiched between the two Katsuki productions of the evening. He applauded dutifully as the trio of young women struck a pose and the lights dimmed for their exit.

When the stage lights came up, they illuminated an empty stage. Victor felt a moment of wild panic that it was all over, and Yuri wasn’t going to perform at all. The lighting design was bright and utilitarian, as if this was not a performance but a workday or a rehearsal. Yuri walked onto the stage into absolute silence. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing a pair of loose trousers in some sort of natural looking fabric. The harsh light cast his face into stark shadows and the musculature of his chest into sharp relief. Chris made an appreciative sound on his left, but Victor couldn’t pull his attention from the stage for long enough to elbow him.

The music began and Victor recognized the minimal sound of what he thought was a shamisen, although he didn’t pretend to be particularly knowledgeable about Japanese instruments, accompanying a lone male voice singing what sounded like a traditional ballad. He didn’t understand the words, but melancholy didn’t need any translation.

Victor, despite his Googling that probably significantly overstepped the line into creepy, was unprepared for Yuri’s dancing. Sure, he had watched an embarrassing number of videos: Yuri as Albrecht in Giselle, Yuri as Basilio in Don Quixote, Yuri as Korshei in the Firebird (in Victor’s highly biased opinion, he was more compelling than Ivan Tsarevitch), Yuri as Ali in le Corsaire, and his favorite: Yuri in Don Quixote: a comedic turn this time, as Sancho Panza, with a frankly adorable costume potbelly. These had all been traditional ballet roles, and Yuri’s talent and athleticism were very much on display. Watching Yuri perform his own choreography to his own musical selection was something altogether different.

At first, he moved slowly, with impeccable control, with stylized motions that reminded him of Kabuki theater at times or of martial arts kata at others; both somehow integrated with the movements of western dance into something new and harmonious. Yuri was able to balance in seemingly impossible, ankle-breaking positions without a tremble. The athleticism was more subtle here, less stratospheric leaps, and more fine muscle control and enviable flexibility. If the story of the earlier dance was one of connection, of seeking and finding love in all its forms, this was a story of longing and unrelenting loneliness. The music seemed to flow through him, as if he was animated by the singer’s desire. His face remained obscured by shadow, but every now and then he would turn into the light with and expression of unmistakable need that opened a pit in Victor’s chest.

Then it was over. Yuri held his final position for a second after the music ended, then straightened. He bowed shortly to the audience, then strode offstage as informally as he’d begun. Victor was instantly on his feet, clapping so hard his hands hurt. He wasn’t alone, not that it would have mattered, but most of the audience had joined him. Even Yurio managed to clap politely.

“Ok, fine, that was kind of cool,” he grumbled as Victor sat down again.

The last piece was a large ensemble dance, and was over quickly. As the house lights came up, Yurio stretched. “Okay, I’m out.”

“But, Brocato’s?”

Yurio gave him a skeptical eye. “Tch. I bet you want to hang out and, like, _talk_ to him.” He grimaced. “No amount of ice cream is worth watching you two weirdos try to flirt.” He was already climbing over the back of his seat in his haste to escape. “Tell him he did pretty good, I guess.”

“Do you need a ride?” Massimo offered.

“Nah, I’m good,” he replied, before jabbing a finger at Victor. “Hey, old man, don’t forget that you owe me some spumoni.” He paused, then added, as if he was concerned that he’d shown too much affection, “Asshole.”

“Good night, Yurio!” Victor chirped, smiling at the extended middle finger that was Yurio’s standard farewell.

Christophe chuckled before looping an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “Shall we go greet the performers?” 

~~ 

One advantage of minimal costuming is that all Yuri had to do was pull on a shirt, locate his glasses and shove his hideous, embarrassing dancer feet into his favorite pair of Birkenstocks. He considered for a moment, then added deodorant to his ensemble out of a sudden love for humanity. He knew that he had a limited window to enjoy a successful performance before he began to play the mental tape that would catalog all of his inadequacies, and he wanted to enjoy it. Overall, though, he was happier than he usually was after a performance. His little troupe had done well with Stammi Vicino, despite their initial concerns about the short rehearsal time and some of Yuri’s more eccentric directions and his unfortunate tendency to forget which language he was speaking when he got excited. He was less enthused about his own performance, but he thought he’d done reasonably well accommodating his choreography to his still-healing tibias. Tomorrow was for the painful post-mortem, right now he planned to celebrate with as much phô as he could consume.

Yuri shouldered his backpack and walked back into the theater. He froze when a shout of “Yuuuuri!” rang out. He dove back behind the door and briefly entertained the fantasy of texting Phichit for a rescue, because he had recognized that head of improbably silver hair and that infectious smile. He suddenly, violently, wished that he had not invited Victor during a fit of drunken horniness. Flirting with Victor at the library and listening to his music and whatever kind of drunken shenanigans he’d gotten up to was one thing, but the idea of an actual sober conversation was something else altogether.

No. Yuri was adult man of 27. He could totally handle mature conversation if he wanted to. He was going to go out there, great his adoring fans, or Phichit, anyway. He would make polite conversation, enjoy some self esteem inflating flirtation with a beautiful man, then he would go out with his friends and eat _all_ the tendon that his ridiculous American friends would pick out of their phô. He took a deep breath and opened the door. This time, Victor just looked up from his conversation with a vaguely familiar looking blond man and gave a slightly sheepish wave. Yuri squared his shoulders, hitched up his backpack, and headed over.

The blond man winked at him, “I’m so sorry about him,” he drawled, “our Mr. Nikiforov can be a little… _extra,_ I know.” He extended a hand, “I don’t suppose I’ve officially introduced myself: Christophe Giacometti, bartender extraordinaire,” he said with a flourish.

“Oh, right, from the Oz,” Yuri babbled, “I didn’t recognize you with a shirt on!” _Oh god._ “I mean, not like that, just, at the bar, you know!” He was waving his hands frantically, as his face got hotter and hotter, and Christophe’s smile widened.

“Oh, that’s alright, Yuri,” he purred, “I could say the same for you!” Yuri wondered it it was actually possible to spontaneously combust from shame.

A tall, sedate looking man with shaggy brown hair took pity on him and held out his hand, “I know, it’s the pot calling the kettle ‘extra’ with those two. I’m Massimo,” he said, “And for some ungodly reason, I live with that one.” He rolled his eyes fondly at Christophe.

“Okay, okay,” Victor grumbled good naturedly, as he stepped toward Yuri, whose throat threatened to close up. “That was a lovely performance. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Yuri! Great show!” Phichit’s voice filtered through the warm fog that seemed to envelop Yuri whenever he talked to Victor. “Oh, hi, um - “

“Victor,” he supplied, smoothly turning from Yuri to shake Phichit’s hand.

“Wait, not -” Phichit began, then smoothly redirected in response to Yuri’s panicked hand waving, “It’s nice to meet you, Victor, I’m Phichit, Yuri’s roommate and social media manager.” Yuri sighed in relief until they went on, “So, Victor, how do you know Yuri?”

“Oh, I’ve just run into him, here and there, around,” Victor began. “Actually -”

“Phichit! Let me introduce you to Christophe!” Yuri interrupted, even though he was well aware that would prove an even more embarrassing combination. While they were happily following each other’s Instagrams and cooing over pictures of their pets, Yuri found himself beside Victor.

“Thank you for coming,” Yuri said, looking intently at a patch of floor about two meters in front of his feet. “I know it wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?”

“I mean, I know that I’m not…” how could he put it? Not anything special, not the performer he used to be, not worth anyone’s time, barely even a choreographer. He just ended with a shrug. “So, it was nice of you to come, and bring your friends.”

“You mean Christophe?” Victor replied with a laugh. “Yuri, he came on his own. I do not intend to embarrass you, but I think you’ve become legend at the Oz.” Yuri groaned. He didn’t even properly remember most of that night. Victor went on, “I brought Yurio, though.”

What. “Yurio? The kid from the library?”

“Yes! He took off, of course, but he said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Fine, that was kind of cool, I guess.’” Yuri couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him at Victor’s uncanny impression of the sulky teen.

“Wow, high praise, then.” Yuri looked over at Victor. “I was proud of my little ensemble. They worked very hard and put up with a lot from a lackluster choreographer.”

Victor placed his hand over Yuri’s and squeezed gently. “Yuri, it was amazing. I will be honest, I do not know about dance, but there was something special about your pieces, both of them. They were very, I don’t know, emotional.” He leaned his shoulder against Yuri’s, “I haven’t made a secret of it, but I think there is something very exciting about the way that you move. You have a unique connection to music. As a musician, I find it very, um, inspiring.” Victor’s voice went low.

“Oh, are you a musician?” Yuri asked. It suddenly seemed too weird to admit that he owned all of Victor’s albums.

“Yuri, you used one of my songs. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am.” There was the slightest edge to Victor’s voice. Yuri didn’t know how to interpret that.

“I’m sorry. I actually didn’t know, not until you gave me your card. I mean, I knew you were Victor the librarian, and I knew about Victor Nikiforov, master of the jazz guitar. But I didn’t know they were the same person. Why would I think that the greatest jazz guitarist of his generation was helping little old ladies print coupons for a living?” Yuri was surprised to find irritation creeping into his voice.

“Oh,” Victor looked stunned by his outburst.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Yuri couldn’t help the plaintive note that had crept into his voice. “Why aren’t you making music?”

“I played a gig last night!” Victor exclaimed defensively.

“Oh?” Yuri asked.

“It was…” Victor trailed off. “It was the opening day of exhibits for the Radiology Society of North America Conference, okay? Lots of Louis Armstrong arrangements.”

Yuri couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face, “That sounds very...specific.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t know if anyone even noticed that we were there.” Yuri wondered if Victor knew how bitter he sounded. Yuri wasn’t sure how to react to this change from Victor’s usual cheerful flirtation. “I need to ask something,” Victor went on, “And I don’t know why it’s important. Why did you choose _Stammi Vicino_? Was it because I was coming?”

Yuri felt like there was a question behind that question. If Yuri had been asking, the real question would have been something like: _Did you use it because you wanted something from me?_ but he couldn’t say that he Victor well enough to interpret it correctly. “No, I started planning that piece the first time I heard that song, before I even left Japan. I wanted to show everyone how that song makes me feel.”

Victor had turned to face him and pinned Yuri with that ice blue gaze of his, “And how does it make you feel?”

He’d dug himself into a hole with that response, he supposed. How did the song make Yuri feel? It wasn’t an easy thing to describe. It filled him with a pleasurable melancholy. It was a nostalgic feeling, but not for anything he’d ever had. Yuri had been in his fair share of short term relationships, but they’d all crumbled before getting serious; victims of Yuri’s schedule or his anxiety or his tendency to withdraw. The music made him feel out of control in a way he’d never allowed himself to feel in a relationship. It made want to give himself over, completely, to someone else; to love so hard that he lost track of his own edges. How did you tell a near stranger that their love song terrified you? There was no way that wouldn’t sound weird and intense. 

Before Yuri could begin to put that answer into words, Chris leaned over from the row behind them, “Don’t look now, my dears, but the theater staff is giving us quite the hairy eyeball.” Christophe stage-whispered to Victor.

Phichit appeared behind him, having finally herded a group of students into formation for the celebratory post-performance dinner that Phichit and Yuri had promised.

“Yeah, Yuri! We’re leaving you and eating all the springrolls if you don’t get your ass in gear,” shouted an excitable freshman named Minami.

“Oh, um, right. I guess we should - “ Yuri straightened and looked at Victor. He stood and raised an eyebrow. “Um, have you eaten? We were going to Phô Tau Bay.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude. Another time, maybe?” Yuri was torn between relief and disappointment. “But I’ll see you soon, I hope.” Victor extended his hand with a wry smile.

“Really, Victor?” Yuri asked, looking askance at the proffered hand.

Victor lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “I didn’t want to come on too strong in front of your students.” He extended his arms awkwardly.

“It didn’t seem like you were worried about that before,” Yuri commented as he stepped into Victor’s embrace. “For the record, I, um, don’t mind,” he whispered into Victor’s shoulder.

Victor gently pushed him back and looked down into his eyes. Yuri didn’t let his gaze wander, even as his heart stuttered in his chest. “Good to know,” Victor said as he bent to brush his lips against Yuri’s. It was barely a kiss, just a brief, tantalizing touch, a moment of shared breath, then Victor tightened his arms again, holding Yuri close.

Phichit cleared their throat. Yuri straightened and stepped back, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to collect himself. Minami had literally clasped his hands to his heart and was looking frantically from Victor to Yuri and back, mouth agape. Victor was still watching him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Okay, then, who’s driving?” Yuri asked, and turned briskly toward the exit, ignoring the blush that crept all the way up his neck. Outside the theater they piled into Phichit’s Metro. While the quartet of dancers wedged themselves into the back seat, Yuri looked back to see Victor watching them. Yuri waved, and Victor’s smile lit up his face, even from across the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meklit Hadero: Waiting for the Earthquakes


	5. Good Rockin' Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor has talents, too. Flirtation intensifies. You have to earn your smut by reading a description of music that you can't hear.

Yuri’s life had somehow turned into an illustration of the Baader Meinhof phenomenon. Or, maybe it was more of a Tell-Tale Heart situation. Guilt played a not-insignificant role in his increasing paranoia. Everywhere he went, he heard Victor’s guitar. He’d turn on WWOZ and they would be airing an interview. He’d walk down the hallway of the music building and a student would be playing a piano arrangement of _Stammi Vicino_. Someone had plastered the telephone pole outside of his Lowerline duplex with flyers. It was driving him crazy.

He knew that he should just call Victor, or go to the library, but every time he thought about it, he would flash on something stupid he had said, or something he imagined he had done that first drunken night, and he would freeze. Somehow, he let a week pass, and then a month. Then, it was too late. If Victor had been interested in something, he wouldn’t be anymore. No one took kindly to being ghosted. Of course, New Orleans was the world’s smallest big city, and in the much-interconnected arts community, no one could avoid anyone forever. Yuri knew that it was only a matter of time before they ran into each other.  


Before he knew it, New Orleans was staring down the end of October, with nothing to show for the change in seasons but a respite from the humidity and a marked increase in the quantity of crunchy live oak acorns on every sidewalk. The locals were comically excited about the change in seasons and had universally declared sixty degrees fahrenheit to be “sweater weather.” He and Phichit (who was wreaking havoc on Yuri’s carefully constructed nutritional program) had treated themselves to burgers for lunch when Phichit issued a suspiciously casual invitation.

“Hey, Yuri, you’re into jazz, right?”

“Uh, yeah, why?”

“Do you know Anya, from school?”

“Yeah, kind of, I guess? Dark hair, super pretty? She’s finishing up this semester, right?” He took a bite, and mumbled around a mouthful of burger, “Why?”

Phichit dragged a fry through some ketchup. “She’s singing tonight, someplace in the Bywater. I told her I’d go, but I don’t feel like going alone.” They turned on the big eyes. “Are you doing anything tonight?” Yuri laughed at Phichit’s pleading face.

”I don’t know, Phichit...”

”Oh, c’mon, Yuri. Do it for Mari.”

”What does my sister have to do with anything?” Yuri asked, a horrible suspicion blooming.

”Weeell,” they didn’t look nearly as guilty as Yuri thought they should, “we might, sort of, follow each other on Insta. She says to make sure you do something other than go to class and rehearse. She wants photographic proof.”

”You’re joking, right?”

Phichit looked deeply offended. “Yuri. Instagram is very important. I would never joke about it.”

”Ugh, okay, fine.”

”You’ll go!”

”I’ll go.”

~~ 

They got to the bar while the band was setting up and laid claim to a table in the corner. It was hard to see the stage, but easier to chat. Phichit were chatting comfortably with a friend from class while Yuri sipped a tumbler of whiskey, listening to the conversation and the sounds of the band tuning up. The bar was rapidly filling, which Yuri figured was a good sign for the caliber of the act.

Scattered applause and a dimming of the general lights called a temporary halt to their conversation. Anya stepped forward and grasped the microphone. From their corner, all Yuri could see were her head and shoulders as she looked at the musician beside her, bobbing her head in time to someone’s count. From the first arpeggio, Yuri knew. There was no way it would be anyone else playing. The guitarist had drifted into the distinctive la pompe accompaniment that characterized Manouche jazz. Yuri choked on his whiskey.

Phichit noticed that something was up and looked over at him. “You okay?” They asked, concern coloring her voice.

Yuri nodded, throat dry. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Anyone else?” He stood without waiting for a response and let his feet lead him to the bar. Anya was singing now, an arrangement of “It _Don’t Mean a Thing (if it Ain’t got that Swing)_.” He could see the rest of the band now. The light was glinting off of the guitarist’s silver hair, because it was Victor (of course it was Victor). He was bent over his guitar, wearing a black tank top. He had a rainbow sweatband around his left wrist. Yuri was mesmerized by the motion of those long graceful fingers on the frets of the guitar and the way the muscles of his forearms subtly flexed as he played. He would look up, laughter in his eyes as he checked in with another piece of the ensemble. As the violinist rampaged through a solo, Victor shouted some sort of encouragement in Russian, fingers flying across the strings. Anya took the lead again, the transitions seamless, perfect, each instrument like an organ of a body, beating and pulsing together, like lovers entwined around the rhythm of Victor’s guitar.

The song whirled to an end and the musicians were laughing, chatting, sipping beverages. Victor mopped his forehead with a bandana and addressed the audience, pulling a microphone close. Yuri whirled toward the bar and ordered another round for his table.

“Thank you! Allow me to introduce tonight’s guest, Anya Katzen,” Yuri watched from the corner of his eye as she curtsied, coquettish in her red dress. “On bass we have Mila Babicheva. She has renounced her heavy metal ways, but you may recognize her from Malignant Mass.” The pretty redhead rolled her eyes and kicked in his general direction. “On clarinet we have the incomparable George Popovic.” The intense looking goth guy raised one hand in acknowledgement. “And on violin is Seung-il Lee.” He didn’t even respond, engaged in tuning his instrument. “Okay! You’ll recognize next tune, I think…” They were off again, an arrangement of Django Reinhardt’s _Minor Swing_. Yuri was familiar with the tune, every Manouche jazz act had covered it at least once, and he’d heard Victor himself play it on several albums, but there was a certain magic to this particular combination of musicians. Victor and Seung-il traded off rhythm duties, the violinist strumming his instrument like a lute when Victor picked up the lead, and transitioned smoothly back to bowing when it came time for his solo.

Yuri hid at his table, but despite his best efforts, that bright blue gaze would occasionally find him in his dark corner. His stomach fluttered ridiculously each time, even though he had no reason to think that Victor could see individuals in the audience with any sort of clarity. Eventually, though, Yuri found himself relaxing into the music, forgetting about the guilt he felt about avoiding Victor.

Phichit grabbed his shoulder and leaned over to speak in his ear. “Having fun?”

“Yeah,” Yuri nodded, and because it seemed like he should say something else, added, “They’re good.” Phichit nodded enthusiastically. Yuri gave him _a look_. “So, did you know that this was Victor’s band?”

“Yes, my social media skillz tracked down your tall drink of vodka,” Phichit replied, “Are you mad? It kind of seemed like there was something going on with you two.”

“It’s fine,” Yuri answered untruthfully. The reality was something much more complicated and personal. “I’m glad I came.” That part was true.

Victor’s voice pulled Yuri’s attention back to the stage. “Okay, I apologize for this one, now. I don’t usually do this, but I can’t let Anya have all the fun.” Victor was adjusting a capo on his guitar, before strumming gently before counting off slowly. The bassist, her fiery hair catching the light, had traded her electric bass for the upright version. She began the song, plucking gently at the strings with a gentle swinging rhythm before the rest of the band joined her. Yuri’s chest tightened as he recognized the melody of _Stammi Vicino_. Then Victor started to sing. Yuri hadn’t known that Victor sang. He hadn’t known that the song had words. In a completely objective way, Yuri instantly understood why Victor didn’t sing on any of his albums. He understood that this wasn’t necessarily a “good” singing voice. Unlike his playing, his voice was clearly untrained. While the pitch was mostly true, he sort of wavered around before settling on a note, and somehow his Russian accent came through rougher and more pronounced this way. There was a hoarseness to it, a hint of a breathy burr that vibrated through Yuri’s bones.

Yuri could look nowhere else, and Victor’s gaze in return had become increasingly obvious. At one point, Phichit elbowed him meaningfully. “THey’re good, right?” He could only nod. He ignored the look that passed between Phichit and their friend. As the song ended, he tore his gaze away.

“Okay, wow, thank you so much! You’ve been an amazing crowd.” Victor exclaimed, wiping his forehead. “Just one more song, I think. What do you say, shall we have a little fun?” His bandmates nodded; Mila grinned impishly. It took Yuri a moment to place the melody, but he had to laugh when Anya started to sing. They had somehow arranged _Rainbow in the Dark_ to a bossa nova rhythm. The audience loved it, especially when Anya did her best Ronnie James Dio impression, horns and all. They clapped until their hands hurt, and Yuri didn’t look away when Victor’s eyes found his.

~~ 

While his compatriots sought out Anya, Yuri found himself heading for the bar alone. He was startled but not surprised when he felt a gentle hand at his waist and a slender figure leaned against the bar next to him. For once the less frightened part of his mind was in charge, and he found himself leaning into the touch. He glanced over and saw Victor raising one slim finger to signal the bartender.

“So, Katsuki Yuri. Did you enjoy our show?” Victor was looking forward, as if he was speaking to someone else. Yuri followed suit, even as the hand at his waist settled into a more comfortable position.

“I did.” He took a sip of his bourbon. “Did you, Victor Nikiforov? ” He eyes stayed on the uplit bottles behind the bar, but he knew when Victor turned toward him.

He felt, rather than saw the shrug. “You know what? I did.” Yuri turned to face Victor, eyes drawn to his lips, moist from his drink. He smelled of exertion and vodka and a hint of tobacco. Yuri took a half step forward.

“So this wasn’t just another day at the office for you?”

“No. I think we’ll play together again.”

“What will you call yourselves? The Nikiforov Quintet?”

“No, that’s boring, Yuri. We’ll be East Infection,” Victor smirked.

“Oh my.”

“It was Mila’s idea.”

“I guess it’s better than Malignant Mass.”

“Don’t laugh. They were really good. At least until their drummer suffered a career-ending injury,” Victor scolded him gravely.

“Oh. That’s terrible. What happened?” Yuri replied with concern, but Victor gave him a wink.

“Do you know what noodling is?”

“Do I want to know what noodling is? It sounds like something you shouldn’t look at on library computers.”

“It is a method of catching catfish. You find a catfish hole, and you put your hand in it.”

“I’m uncomfortable with this conversation,” Yuri replied, entranced by the mischievous light in Victor’s eyes. “Please keep going.”

Victor smirked, “I guess catfish get very big down here, and they don’t really have teeth, so you stick your hand down there, and sort of wiggle your fingers around, like so -” he demonstrated with a flourish, making Yuri squint at his fingers, “And then the catfish thinks they are food, and then, Chomp!” He clamped his other hand around his wrist. Yuri cringed. “And then you pull it out and, voila, you have a fish.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

Victor nodded forcefully, “Apparently, instead of catfish, he caught alligator snapping turtle, and so -” Victor held up his right hand and folded down his ring finger and pinky.

Yuri groaned, “You made all that up.”

“No! I am scrupulously honest!” Victor protested, bumping his shoulder into Yuri’s. “You cannot tell me that is not a better story than a messy breakup and a fight over iguana custody arrangements.”

“Actually that sounds pretty compelling.”

“Holistic attorneys were involved.”

“That’s not a thing, is it?” Yuri gave Victor a distrustful look.

“Oh, my sweet summer child, of course there are holistic attorneys in this city.” He smiled when Yuri snickered. “Thank you for coming, Yuri.”

“You should thank Anya, Phichit wanted to hear her sing.” Yuri took a fortifying sip of his drink. “May I offer some constructive criticism?” Victor waved a hand in permission. “You liked watching me dance, right?”

Victor nodded, eyes hooded. “Very much.”

Yuri leaned forward, letting his cheek rest against Victor’s, mouth close to his ear. “Next time, play somewhere with a dance floor,” he scolded, drawing back. He lifted his hand to Victor’s chin, but changed his mind and let his knuckle rest against Victor’s chest, feeling it rise with a sharp intake of breath. He rapped gently on his breastbone, then looked over Victor’s shoulder.

“Anya! You were amazing!” Yuri turned to her, feeling the weight of Victor’s gaze on his back as he gave her a one-armed hug.

“Thanks for coming, Yuri.” She glanced between him and Victor, “I didn’t knew you two were…” She glanced between them and then frantically backtracked, “I mean I didn’t know that you knew each other,” she trailed off, looking awkward. Yuri grimaced internally.

“Yeah, from the library. We are old friends,” Victor supplied smoothly, wrapping an arm around Yuri’s shoulder while he nodded, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks, his courage gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Let’s go, Yuri! I’m starving!” Phichit whined dramatically, appearing behind Anya and resting their chin on her shoulder. She laughed and mussed Phichit’s hair. They snapped a selfie. “Oh, hello,” They said, noticing Victor. “Great show!” They extended a hand and Victor gave it a friendly shake.

“Hello again! Phichit, right?”

Phichit grinned, “You got it,” they grabbed Yuri’s elbow and started steering him toward the restroom. “Excuse us just a minute, Victor! Yuri needs to, um, powder his nose.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup! And he needs me for, um, moral support. He has a...shy...bladder. Uh. ‘Kay thanks bye!” Phichit dragged Yuri off, ignoring his squawk of protest.

“Oh god, Phichit, are you trying to kill me? I’m going to literally die of embarrassment. Besides, there is no way I’m going into a French Quarter bathroom. They are disgusting, and if I get cholera I will find a way to give it to you.”

“Stop being so dramatic, Yuri. That’s my job.” Phichit waved their hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, we’re just conducting a quick strategy meeting in the hall.” They edged out of the way of the line of women who were giving Phichit and Yuri dirty looks. “Yuri, your, erm, evident thirst is a matter of great concern to me. Allow your Auntie Phichit to help you in your quest for hydration.”

“Oh god,” Yuri buried his face in his hands.

“Yuri,” Phichit sing-songed. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but you’re gay, right?”

“We’ve already had this conversation, Phichit. We did grammar and everything,” Yuri muttered, without lifting his head.

“Yes, yes, ‘I am large, I contain multitudes.’ And you like Victor, right? Like, ‘when i think about you i touch myself’ kind of like?”

“Augh.”

“I know you’ve got a crush on your sexy librarian, but there’s obviously something with this guy, so...”

“Oh god, Phichit, I didn’t tell you. The sexy librarian _is_ Victor.”

“What? Yuri, I can’t believe that you would withhold such vital information from your bosom friend,” Phichit gasped, clutching at their metaphorical pearls, before waving it off, “It’s okay, I forgive you. Anyway, what are you waiting for? You should be in like Flynn!” They smirked and Yuri regretted ever telling his roommate anything.

“Why am I friends with you?”

“Because I’m the best.” Phichit nudged Yuri with their shoulder, “And, unless I have lost all ability to read human emotion, Victor is, like, super down to eggplant emoji with you.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “Truly, you have a way with words.”

“It’s a gift. Much like the gift I am now bestowing on you: you are hereby disinvited from dinner.” They waved their hands magnanimously.

“What?”

“You now have no plans. Invite Victor to something, then, invite him to something else. Then invite him back to his place. Not our place. I have to get up early.”

“Oh. Um. You present a compelling argument.” Yuri said seriously. “One day, I will return the favor.”

“Gross. Please don’t.” Phichit wrinkled their nose delicately.

“Right, sorry.”

“Whatever,” Phichit winked at him before spinning him around and giving him a gentle shove back into the bar. “Now, get out there and tap that ass!”

~~

When Victor saw Yuri sneaking back into the main room, he quickly turned his attention back to his phone. He didn’t want to be caught staring after Yuri the way Makkachin watched him eat pizza. His stomach rumbled with the reminder of dinner. Yuri was alone this time, and his neck still bore the fading remains of his blush.

Yuri walked up to him with a smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Um, so, it turns out that I don’t have plans for dinner?” It came out as a question. “So, um, we could grab something, you know, if you wanted to.” 

“I’d like that. Just let me get my things.” He gathered his instrument and backpack, swigged the last of his vodka while sketching a brief goodbye to Seung-il, who was ignoring him anyway, and returned to Yuri’s side as quickly as possible.

It was good that he’d been fast, he thought, since Yuri seemed to be having doubts. As Victor approached, he closed his eyes like he was trying to collect himself and said, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to. You’re probably tired. We don’t have to get dinner if you don’t want to…”

Victor sighed. “Yuri, I didn’t think I could be much more obvious, but I would love to have dinner with you. I would love to do a million other things with you, but dinner seems like as good a place as any to start.”

“Oh,” Yuri said, startled out of his monologue. “That’s good, then. Let’s go.” He turned with an adorable look of determination and led the way outside, Victor trailing behind him. On the sidewalk, Yuri paused.

“Um.”

“I was going to go to Mona’s, unless you had something else in mind.” Yuri shook his head. “It’s on Frenchmen, if you don’t mind walking with me.” Yuri nodded and followed Victor’s lead. As they walked, Victor couldn’t help but ask, “Did you really think I would say no?”

Yuri looked down, “I wasn’t sure. I thought you seemed like you, you know, liked me, but it kind of seems like you flirt with everyone. Victor, I’ve seen you flirt with the lucky button lady at the library.”

“Well, I would have thought it was fairly obvious that she isn’t my type.”

“How should I know what your type is? Related question: you don’t have something going with Yurio, right?”

“What? That’s...wait.” Oh dear, that would be well, morally questionable “Yuri, why would you think that?”

Yuri blushed, “I’m sorry, he was at your house, you brought him to the recital. There’s obviously some sort of relationship there, and I’m not real interested in being a third.”

“Oh god, no, no, no! You thought that me and Yurio...” Victor paused for a breath and to modulate his voice down from the squeak it had become. “Uh, yeah, no, there’s nothing like that between us. To begin with, he’s, like, 18, I think, and I know some people love that whole barely legal thing but, no, just no.”

Yuri nodded, “Good, then. I won’t lie, that would have been kind of creepy. Even more so than dragging an inebriated stranger home.”

Victor covered his eyes with his hand, “Ugh, that probably was, well, not my wisest decision. In my defense, it seemed safer than leaving you at the bar.” He peeked out between his fingers and was relieved to see Yuri suppressing a small smile. “Anyway, no, I don’t have a thing for taking advantage of impressionable youths. Yurio is -” Friend? Annoying brother figure? “My dog-sitter.” 

“I know.”

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Victor snapped his fingers, “He is my youthful ward, like Bruce Wayne and, uh, what’s Robin’s real name?”

“Er, Dick Grayson.”

“Mm.” Victor nodded.

“That’s not very comforting, Victor. I’ve seen Sweeney Todd. I know all about youthful wards and their, uh, warders.”

“Wardens?”

“Warditos?” Yuri had paused and was looking at Victor with a teasing smile.

“Wardettino.”

“Ward-chan. I'm out of diminutives,” Yuri frowned. Victor, oh course, had a million diminutives, and had to shake himself out of a fantasy of teaching Yuri all of them when Yuri shoulder jostled against his own. “Sorry,” Yuri murmured, but he didn’t pull back. 

Victor sought out Yuri’s hand with his own and interlaced their fingers. “I don’t mind.” In response Yuri leaned into his shoulder. They travelled the next block in silence, stopping in a convenience store for a bottle of wine at Victor’s suggestion. Yuri carried the bag which, tragically, meant that he no longer had a hand free for Victor.

~~ 

At the restaurant, they ordered far too much food, and continued their conversation over sharp bites of tabbouleh and creamy baba ghanoush. 

“I should thank you,” Victor said as Yuri bit into a piece of kibbeh.

He moaned softly with pleasure and Victor shifted in his seat, his cheeks heating. “Sorry,” Yuri mumbled around the mouthful. He swallowed, washed it down with a sip of wine, and said, “What are you thanking me for?”

“For giving me a hard time. I had fun tonight. For the first time in a while, I really enjoyed making music and, honestly, I wouldn’t have gone to the effort of getting everyone together if you hadn’t said what you did.”

“Oh. I’m glad I did something right.” Yuri set down the kibbeh and swiped the grease from his fingers. He’d gone serious, and seemed unwilling to meet Victor’s eyes. “Actually, I need to apologize.” Victor braced himself for the coming rejection. “You - you’ve been very kind to me, and you’ve been very patient with all of my,” Yuri fluttered his hand next to his head, and Victor just waited for the inevitable ‘but.’ Yuri collected himself and went on, frowning slightly. “But -” _there it was_. Victor wanted to interrupt, didn’t want to hear it out loud, but he held his tongue. “I haven’t been at my best. You must think I’m the worst sort of…” He frowned and bit his lip, stealing a glance up. “I don’t want you to think that I’m playing with your feelings.”

“I didn’t think that. I thought that I had maybe misinterpreted things. I am guilty of painful enthusiasm.” Victor swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’ve had a history of, maybe wishful thinking is the right word? Anyway, I’ve been told that I’m too much, too needy. It’s usually shouted at me by someone on their way out. I tend to think that things mean more than they do. It’s okay that you don’t feel the same way.”

Yuri head jerked up and he narrowed his eyes. “Of course that’s what you would think.” He sighed then leaned forward, whispering with quiet intensity. “The problem isn’t that I don’t feel something for you. The problem is that I feel too much. Way too much, especially when I remember that I’ve only talked to you a handful of times. Victor, you dummy, I want you. I want you so much that it actually scares me. I want to lose myself in you. I want you to -” He cut himself off abruptly, as if suddenly realizing what he had said or what he was going to say, Victor wasn’t sure, but he really wanted to hear the end of that sentence. Yuri’s cheeks were pink as he took a long sip of his wine. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “That was a bit intense.”

Victor cleared his throat and reached for his water. “Okay, then. You are definitely going to finish that sentence later.” He leaned forward, feeling a faintly predatory smile spread across his face. He laid his hand over Yuri’s, “I like you intense. I like you -” he fluttered his other hand next to his head like Yuri had, “I like you anyway I can have you. So, please, let me. Let me like you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me have you.”

Yuri was perfectly still for a long moment, then, suddenly, he moved his hand, grabbing Victor’s and pulling him forward. “I think that we are finally on the same page.” He looked wryly at their half-eaten dinner. “Um, do you think we can get all this to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Etta James: Good Rockin' Daddy


	6. All of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut warnings apply. If that's not your thing and you skip this chapter, all you'll really be missing is a description of Victor's container garden.

They left the restaurant in a comedic rush, Victor practically flinging his debit card at the cashier in his haste. They tumbled onto the sidewalk in a flurry of guitar and to-go bags.

“Your place?” Yuri suggested. “Is your dog-sitter there?”

“Yes, please, my place. No, no dog-sitter,” Victor laughed. “Do you mind walking?”

“Could we run instead?”

Victor led the way out of the Quarter at a run, guitar case banging against his leg. At the boundary between the Quarter and the Bywater, they paused on the neutral ground, laughing breathlessly while Victor tied a shoelace. He stood again and picked up his guitar and a bag of leftovers that he set down beneath a magnolia. Yuri was watching him with an indecipherable expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

Yuri stepped close, his face intent. Victor found himself giving way before the shorter man until he bumped into the trunk of the tree, making its large leaves clatter above him. Yuri reached his free hand behind Victor’s head and pulled him sharply forward, rising on his toes to meet Victor’s lips with his own. They must have gotten all of their tentative flirtation and gentle testing out of the way over the last couple of months, because there was no uncertainty in this kiss. Victor thought he might suffocate. He was drowning in Yuri, in the press and give of his lips and the warmth of his body where his chest pressed against Victor’s.

Yuri broke the kiss, settling back to his heels and trailing his fingertips from where they had clutched Victor’s neck along his jaw and down his chest. “I was saying something earlier -”

“Yes. There was something you wanted to do, if memory serves.”

A streetlight caught Yuri’s eyes, making them sparkle a warm bronze. His hand had stopped, fingers splayed over his abdomen. He hooked his index finger into Victor’s belt and jerked him sharply forward. Victor stumbled slightly. Yuri continued in a chiding voice, “Don’t interrupt: this is important.” His voice was soft and thoughtful. Victor strained to hear. He didn’t want to miss a single word. “I want to lose myself in you. I want to bury myself in you. I want to fuck you until I forget how to feel anything else.”

Victor let out a pathetic sound and let his head thunk against the tree trunk. The black branches spread above him and he could see the flash of an airplane passing over. He looked back at Yuri who was watching him with a smug smile. “Yuri, you are going to kill me. I am literally going to die.”

“Oh dear. I wouldn’t want you to die.” He licked his lips and stepped forward. “If it’s as bad as that, I suppose I could provide some emergency assistance.” He was toying with the buckle of Victor’s belt when a burst of voices from Port of Call brought reality back into sharp focus. Yuri’s face soured, and he stepped back, looking regretful. “Or not,” he murmured. “Well, come on,” he said briskly, switching the bag of leftovers from one hand to the other. “Please, tell me you don’t live far.”

~~

Fortunately, Victor was incorrect, and neither of them actually literally died during the rest of the short walk. Yuri didn’t think of himself as a particularly confident person, sexually or otherwise, but there was a fierce pleasure in seeing the effect he had on Victor. He watched him fumble, cursing, with the lock of his door, eagerness making his nimble fingers clumsy. The last time Yuri had been in Victor’s home, he’d been far too hungover and distressed to take it in, but now he looked around curiously. 

The small front yard was a riot of palmettos and cycads that screened the small house from the street. The front porch was really just a block of cement in front of the door, but it was still cluttered with a village of potted plants, mostly succulents, but Yuri spotted some culinary herbs as well. 

After a few minutes of swearing and dropped keys, Victor got the door open, and ushered Yuri inside where he was promptly bowled over by a dog. 

“Makka, no! We don’t jump!” Victor scolded, while the poodle continued to prove him wrong by leaping for the bag that Yuri held out of reach from where he sprawled on the floor. Victor hurriedly set his guitar on the squishy chair by the door, then retrieved the food from Yuri’s waving hands, which left him free to properly greet the dog. While he rubbed her belly, he looked around. The long front room was painted a rich green, but it was hard to tell since almost every inch of wall space was covered in either art or bookshelves. The floor looked like reclaimed cypress and was warmed with a colorful wool rug. 

“Yuri, meet Makkachin, Makkachin: Yuri,” Victor said with a pleased smile, returning from the kitchen. Yuri looked up at him, feeling warm all over. Makka seemed to sense the change in the air. She gave Yuri’s face a lick and looked at Victor for approval. “Good girl,” he said, giving her ears a scratch, “Come on, girl, let’s go out.”

“Bathroom?” Yuri asked, setting his shoes next to the door. Victor pointed as he followed Makkachin to the back door.

Yuri freshened up as well as he could, brushing his teeth with his forefinger and splashing water over his face. He rummaged a bit, just enough to find some nail clippers. He didn’t dwell on his reflection, he knew what he looked like, with the round cheeks that made him look too young and the blush that didn’t let him hide anything. When he was with Victor he felt beautiful, and it made him brave. The last thing he wanted right now was a reminder of his painful ordinariness. He wanted to maintain the belief, fragile though it was, that someone - _that Victor_ \- might think he was special. When stepped into the hall, he could still hear Victor outside, talking softly to Makkachin in Russian. He smiled to himself and walked back to the front room, entertaining himself by flipping through Victor’s record collection. He selected a Nina Simone album and set it on the turntable before sitting on the floor to poke through the rest. After a few moments, Makkachin ran over and stuck her cold nose in his ear before trotting to the battered leather couch and plopping down with a huff. He heard Victor laugh and looked over his shoulder.

“My turn,” he said apologetically, disappearing into the bathroom. Yuri nodded and returned to his snooping. He was reading the liner notes of a recording of _Die Zauberflöte_ when Victor came to stand next to him. He extended a hand and Yuri let himself be pulled to his feet. “I didn’t get a chance to give you the tour, last time.”

Yuri was sure that it was a very nice home, but it would have been difficult to pinpoint anything he was _less_ interested in. “Victor,” he pouted, stepping close, “Aren’t you going to make me breakfast again?”

He could see the muscles work in Victor’s throat as he swallowed. “I would like to do that, yes.”

“Then the tour can wait for the morning.” He tipped his face up and smiled. Victor didn’t refuse the invitation. He bent for a kiss, wrapping long arms around Yuri’s waist and pressing their bodies together. Yuri’s desire had been honed to a sharp edge over the evening, and he moaned with the relief of finally holding and being held, giving himself over to movement and touch. Nina was singing _‘Feeling Good,_ ’ and Yuri’s hips started to sway without his conscious decision. He was hard already and he didn’t see any reason to hide it, not when Victor’s erection was prodding him firmly in the hip. He pressed himself against Victor’s leg, his body questing for sensation, shamelessly craving more. He pressed his nose against Victor’s neck, smelling a hint of cologne and the scent of sweat. He darted his tongue out to taste the soft skin, and Victor gasped out a laugh. Makkachin let out a sudden “whuff” from the couch, and Yuri dissolved into laughter. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor giggled, “Shall we go somewhere more private?” He took Yuri’s hands and held them to his lips, kissing the knuckles as he walked backwards into the bedroom. Victor reached toward the light switch, then paused and moved instead to a lamp on the bedside table. He switched it on, and a warm glow filled the room. Yuri reached for him, tugging Victor’s shirt from his waistband to reach the soft skin of his abdomen. Victor gasped. “Your hands are cold,” he explained with a laugh. “How are your hands cold?”

Yuri shrugged and pulled himself closer to Victor, pushing his shirt up over his head. He paused, with it over Victor’s face, and while he struggled to free himself, Yuri bent to kiss his chest, pausing to lick one nipple into a stiff point. He trailed his fingers along Victor’s ribs, watching goosebumps rise in their wake, and teased at the light dusting of pale hair across his pecs. Victor had, by now, freed himself from the t-shirt, and was watching Yuri’s exploration with a hunger in his gaze that even Yuri’s imposter syndrome couldn’t misinterpret. He reached out to touch Yuri’s cheek, running his thumb along the rise of his cheekbone. Yuri leaned into the touch with a sigh. He stepped back, just a bit and, watching Victor’s face, began to draw his own shirt over his head. 

“Wait -” Victor interjected, reaching out again and plucking his glasses from his face, setting them safely on the bedside table. “Carry on,” he said, with a nod.

Yuri had intended to draw it out a bit more, to tease a little, but he was impatient to feel Victor’s skin against his, so he simply pulled off his shirt, tossing it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed. Victor’s hands were instantly on him, exploring his ribs, tracing his muscles with clever fingers. It made Yuri shiver even as each touch tightened the hot coil of anticipation in his belly. They were kissing again, but Yuri couldn’t remember who had started it this time. His world narrowed to the sensation of hot soft skin against his chest, to the soft give of Victor’s lips and the rough scrape of stubble against his lips, his cheek, his neck. He tipped his head back, gasping, and fumbled with Victor’s belt as Victor was reaching for his. It was awkward and a bit silly, losing their balance, stumbling into each other because they refused to break the kiss. Yuri could feel Victor’s lips tighten over his teeth as he smiled and he gasped a laugh in response. Yuri pushed Victor to lean against the side of the bed, kicking the jumble of pants and belts aside. Victor hitched one leg around Yuri’s waist, drawing him even closer.

Victor seemed to have found a place he was happy, kissing and sucking at the juncture of Yuri’s neck and shoulder, rubbing his cock against Yuri’s hip. Even through the thin fabric of Victor’s boxers, he could feel the sticky wetness at the tip of Victor’s cock smearing against his skin. Yuri reached down, sliding his fingers through the fly of his shorts, Victor groaned, biting down on Yuri’s shoulder and thrusting helplessly against his hand. The sound pulled an answering sigh from Yuri. It still wasn’t enough. Yuri felt like he would never get enough of this: enough of these touches, enough of the sounds Victor made, enough of the way his eyes slid shut as he gave in to Yuri’s touch. He felt like he would never get enough of this man.

He stepped back, kissing his way down Victor’s body, tasting the salt of his sweat, enjoying the muscles of Victor’s torso flexing beneath his hands. He paused and ran his thumb along the line where the muscles of his abdomen met his hip flexors.

“What do you call this?”

Victor jerked his head up, “What?” he asked.

“This -”Yuri stroked again, making the muscles jump and quiver, “I never know what to call this. I mean, I know the anatomical name, but…”

“What is it?”

“It’s called the iliac furrow,” he said matter of factly, still drifting his fingers along the trough of muscle, letting his thumbs hook into the waistband of Victor’s boxers, pulling them down. He knelt and looked up to see Victor’s eyes widen as he watched Yuri. He stroked again, “The other term I’ve heard is ‘cum gutters,’ but that’s an ugly name for a beautiful feature, don’t you think?” He let his hand continue its exploration, briefly travelling the length of Victor’s cock, then drawing a finger along the crinkled skin of his sack before gently cupping his balls. “Victor?”

“Oh god, Yuri, please.”

Yuri leaned forward, flicking his tongue out to taste Victor. He must have washed up earlier; there was a scent of soap lingering around the tightly curled hairs that were just a bit darker than those on his head. He lapped along the underside of Victor’s shaft before taking him all the way in, as deeply as he could. Victor hips jerked and Yuri gagged slightly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Victor panted, “Are you okay?” Yuri just waited until Victor looked at him, and them slowly, deliberately, took him in all the way in, letting his throat relax. Victor’s eyes widened, “You’re magic, aren’t you? I knew you were magic.” Yuri tried to smirk, but it was hard to do with a cock in his mouth, so he just winked. Victor grinned and reached down to run his fingers through Yuri’s hair, gently caressing his scalp. When Victor started to tremble with the effort of holding himself still, Yuri released him and stood, stripping off his boxer briefs. He took himself in hand, stroking with long firm strokes. He was so hard that the relief when he finally touched himself was almost painful.

Victor scooted back on the bed, cock bouncing against his stomach, fluid leaking from the dusky pink tip as he watched Yuri work himself. “What do you want, Victor?”

“Everything,” he replied without any hesitation, eyes glued to Yuri’s hand on his cock.

“You have to say it,” Yuri teased. “I might not believe you, otherwise.”

Victor took a breath then met Yuri’s eyes. “Katsuki Yuri, I want you to fuck my ass.” Victor sprawled languidly on the bed, toying with his hard cock, running his other hand up and down his abdomen, tracing shapes across his pale skin, flushed with his need.

“You are so beautiful,” Yuri sighed. Victor smiled happily, the corners of his eyes wrinkling just a bit. He leaned over to pull something from the bedside table as Yuri climbed onto the bed beside him and kissed the corner of his mouth. Victor turned toward him, eyes half-closed, but Yuri pulled back. He touched Victor’s face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the silver feather of his eyelashes, the pink fullness of his lips. He gently pressed his fingers against his lips and Victor, understanding, sucked them into his mouth, wetting them for Yuri.

He reached down, pausing again to play with Victor’s balls, then rubbing his wet finger around his entrance. Victor shuddered, clinging to his shoulders. “Okay?”

“Yes. It’s just - it’s been a while.”

“I’ll go slow,” Yuri assured him, reaching for the lube and the condom that Victor had retrieved. “Tell me if anything is too much.”

“I’m not worried, Yuri.”

Yuri slicked his fingers began to touch Victor again. He slid his finger in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, and Victor tensed for a moment, clenching on Yuri’s hand. Yuri could see him fighting against his body, willing himself to relax. After a moment, he nodded, with a look of concentration. Yuri began to move, then, gently fucking him with his finger before adding another, feeling his body tense and relax around his fingers, watching the expressions chasing each other across his face.

“Yuri, please, I think I’m going to -” 

Yuri withdrew his fingers and hushed him with a kiss, “Not yet, Victor,” he teased, opening the condom and slipping it on, “You won’t come until I’m inside you.”

Victor whimpered, his head falling back to the bed. “I’ve been wanting you all night, Yuri. I don’t know how much longer I can wait,” he complained, lifting his knees.

Yuri rubbed the tip of his cock against Victor, entranced by the slippery sensation of the lube against the condom. He placed his tip against Victor entrance and slowly pressed forward, quivering with effort as the hot inside of Victor’s body clamped around him. He groaned at the sensation, his head falling forward onto Victor’s chest and began to move, gently at first, but then more vigorously, urged one by Victor’s hands on his shoulders and murmured words of pleasure and encouragement. He was saying something, repeating himself as he pumped into Victor, but the words didn’t make sense, they were a string of meaningless babble and he couldn’t even say whether he was speaking English or Japanese.

Victor had wrapped both legs around his waist and was kissing his neck and shoulders and any part of Yuri’s body that he could reach. The motion changed a bit and suddenly Victor gasped Yuri’s name, repeating it over and over like a prayer.

“Oh god, oh Yuri, I’m- I’m -” the sudden clench and release around Yuri’s cock would have told him even if Victor hadn’t said anything, and Victor’s spasms instantly pulled Yuri from the ledge he was so precariously balanced on. His own orgasm unfurled from his balls, pulling itself from him, pouring his pleasure into Victor. He collapsed, still buried in Victor. He could feel every beat of Victor’s pulse through his softening dick as he struggled to catch his breath.

Victor was stroking his hair and whispering something softly. Yuri slid his arms around he waist and squeezed, ignoring the sticky mess between them. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and he realized that there was a very serious risk of falling asleep like this. He frowned and tried to sit up, but he found himself held in place, Victor’s legs still wrapped around him. He moved again, but Victor did not release him. He tilted his head to look at Victor. His eyes were closed and his face still, but when Yuri tried to move again, he saw Victor’s lips quirk in a half smile that was quickly suppressed.

“Victor? Let me up, please.” He tried again. “Victor,” he whined, “You’re all sticky!”

“You like it.” He wiggled his belly beneath Yuri, making the mess bigger.

Yuri sighed and let himself be held close because, as gross and sweaty and sticky as they were, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willie Nelson: All of Me


	7. Big Butter and Egg Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor cooks breakfast; and argument ensues. Smut warning continue until the first break.

Victor woke to bright sunlight and a sound of running water. He rolled toward the still warm place at the other side of the bed, burying his face in the pillow that held his scent. Yuri had stayed. He had been afraid that Yuri would disappear with the night. He stretched sleepily; his limbs still loose with satiety. It was late, if the quantity of clear light streaming through the blinds was any indication. Victor was usually up before the sun, knocking out a run before it got too hot, but he supposed that last night had been enough cardio for the day.

The water shut off, and Victor rolled to his back, and closed his eyes, trying to look inviting. It must have worked because Yuri climbed back into bed next to him, curling up against his side.

“Good morning,” Yuri murmured.

Victor responded with a loud snore. Yuri slapped a hand over his mouth and nose. Victor caught a faint whiff of poodle and laughed against Yuri’s palm, abandoning his pretense and opening his eyes. “You smell like dog.”

Yuri jerked his hand back, blushing. Victor traced the soft pink of his cheeks with his thumb. “Sorry, Makkachin wanted to say hi.”

“I love it,” Victor said, “Being nice to my dog is a huge turn-on.”

“Is that so?” Yuri replied dryly. “Is that what this is about, then?” He reached down to caress Victor. He was somehow already hard and hadn’t even noticed. He felt the tips of his ears warm as Yuri nestled closer and Victor became aware of Yuri’s own erection against his thigh.

“Mmm. What a nice way to wake up.”

Yuri sat up, frowning a little, “Don’t get used to it. I’m usually dead to the world until after ten unless I set an alarm.” He slung a leg over Victor’s thighs, rubbing his cock against Victor’s. “I think I deserve a reward for waking up so early.”

Victor cleared his throat, “Take pity on an old man, Yuri. I may need a day to recover.”

Yuri leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose. “Don’t worry, geezer. I’ll do all the work.”

Yuri was true to his word, riding Victor until his world narrowed to the sensation of Yuri’s body around his, shuddering and clenching on his cock, as he worked himself with his hands. Victor held on to his thighs, feeling those strong dancer muscles flex as he smoothly fucked himself with Victor’s body. Yuri came, waves of constriction bringing Victor to the very edge of orgasm, but it wasn’t until Yuri leaned forward and gently kissed his lips, that he let go, following Yuri with a gasp, hips pumping an irregular rhythm.

Yuri stayed where he was for a moment. His face was calm, but Victor could see that he was still breathing heavily in the expansion of his rib cage.

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” Victor asked, still breathless.

“You might have, but I don’t mind if you say it again,” Yuri looked down, “I don’t know that I’m anything special, though.”

Victor choked, then winced as he slid out of Yuri, who just smirked. “‘Not anything special,’ he says. This man who fucked me till I forgot my own name, then woke me up, already slick and waiting, I might add, to do that,” he gestured helplessly between them, “again, and the man says he’s ‘not anything special.’”

Yuri looked toward the window. The sun picked out a few highlights of coppery brown in his bangs. “I think you’ve somehow confused horniness with beauty.” He eased himself off of Victor’s thighs, grimacing at the stickiness, “Help me clean up?” Victor was already following him, pausing only to dispose of the condom.

~~

Freshly showered and wearing borrowed flannel pants slung low around his hips, Yuri perched on a stool drinking coffee and watching Victor rummage in his fridge. 

“What do you think? I could do a frittata or some grits, I might have some frozen shrimp…” 

“You must really like to cook,” Yuri commented. “If we were at my place, your options would be Cheerios or Grape-nuts, and a choice of almond milk or soy milk.” 

“No dairy?” 

“Lactose intolerant. You don’t want to know what happens.”  


“Good to know,” Victor may have been planning what he would make if he could cook dinner for Yuri. “Any other dietary restrictions?” 

“Not really. Obviously, I have to watch what I eat. I’ve already put on some weight since I moved here. Most of the time I just have, like chicken or something and I steam some vegetables with my rice.” 

“Wow, that sounds,” soul-crushingly boring, “really healthy.” Definitely a frittata, with some roasted red pepper and oil cured olives, and feta - wait, no, skip the feta - and a little thyme. He turned on the oven to preheat and got out his favorite cast-iron pan, the big square one that he had been working on since he rescued it from the Bargain Store. He had finally gotten it perfectly seasoned. He still had some green tomatoes from the farmers market, maybe he could fry some, or would that be too much? Yuri mentioned watching what he ate… “Could you hand me that garlic?” He nodded to the hanging basket. 

Yuri reached up and plucked out a bulb, handing it to Victor. “Anything else I can help with?” 

“Um, I think I’m okay - Oh, would you mind? I have some thyme out front. Could you clip me a couple of sprigs?” He held out a small pair of shears. 

“Yeah, okay! I can definitely do that.” Yuri nodded determinedly, as if he’d been asked to wrestle a shark or something similarly hazardous. He took the shears and disappeared through the front door. 

Victor was engrossed in charring his peppers over the burner when it suddenly occurred to him that Yuri had been gone an awfully long time. Had he somehow locked himself out? This wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it wasn’t so bad that harvesting herbs from your own yard should have been risky. He tossed the peppers in a paper bag to steam and was about to check on Yuri when he returned, triumphantly holding a single sprig of thyme. 

He handed it to Victor, settling himself back on the stool. Victor looked at him curiously, but didn’t comment. 

After a moment of heavy silence, Yuri said, “I got out there, and I realized I didn’t know what thyme looked like. So I thought, maybe I should just smell things.” His cheeks were getting redder as he spoke. “Then I realized that I don’t actually know what thyme smells like.” 

Oh. “Um, well, you guessed right!” Victor said, hoping he sounded encouraging and not condescending. 

“I didn’t guess. I Googled it.” 

Victor snorted, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh.” A giggle escaped, despite his best intentions. “But you could have just asked, Yuri. 

Yuri looked at him doubtfully. “You would have laughed at me.” 

“I promise that, despite my current behavior, I would not have made fun of you.” He forced his mouth into a sincere line. “The image of you frantically Googling in your, er, _my_ pajamas is the part that’s funny, not that you didn’t know what it looked like.” 

Yuri crossed his arms and looked offended. 

“I’m sorry, Yuri. Please say you’ll forgive me?” He leaned across the counter with what he hoped was a contrite expression. He hoped that Yuri appreciated that he was giving himself wrinkles with his dramatically furrowed brow. Yuri sniffed and lifted his chin belligerently. Victor exaggerated his pout and leaned over further. 

Finally Yuri cracked, rolling his eyes and smiling. He leaned forward and bestowed a lingering kiss on Victor. “Fine, you’re forgiven,” he said, still close enough that his lips were moving against Victor’s, as soft as something less clichéd than feathers. “Your shirt might be on fire.” He sat back and sipped his coffee. Victor looked down and yelped, leaping back from the stove and tearing off his t-shirt. The fabric was hot, and there was perhaps a faint browning of the cotton, but he was otherwise unscathed. He shrugged and slung the shirt over his shoulder with a wink that earned him yet another faint blush. 

“Do you still want to help?” Victor offered, noticing that Yuri looked a little bit uncomfortable. When Yuri nodded, looking relieved, he handed over a cutting board and the bag of peppers. “Here - these should be cool enough to handle. Just kinda peel the skin off. It’s usually pretty easy if you start from a spot that’s blistered.” 

Yuri opened that bag and pulled out a pepper, looking at it with interest. He set to the task with single minded focus and help up one of his écorchéd peppers for Victor’s approval, “Like this?” 

Victor nodded, “Perfecto. Here, you can slice them into strips when you’re done with that, just pull the seeds out first, and put them in here,” he handed over a bowl for the scraps. 

Yuri did as instructed, slicing the peppers neatly, if slowly. It was nice, this easy domesticity. It would be so easy to fall for Yuri, to tumble head over heart in love. It certainly wasn’t worth the energy to hold his heart back. Yuri plucked up one of his strips of pepper and tasted it, the soft red morsel disappearing behind his full lips, his eyes closed in thought. When he opened them, he caught Victor watching and returned the look curiously. Victor’s neck warmed as he returned to chopping the garlic. 

~~

After breakfast, Victor excused himself to let Makkachin out. He stood on his small deck, watching Makkachin bark at a squirrel and filling his birdfeeder while he waited for her to do her business. Finally, he coaxed her back inside, wondering if he could talk Yuri into coming along on a walk with them. He knew that Yuri would eventually have to go home, and that he would have to go to work, and that their lives would somehow go back to normal. He plucked an eyelash from his cheek, pinching it between thumb and forefinger, making a wish before his breath carried it off to wherever wishes went. _Let me become a part of his normal._

Makkachin finally sniffed her fill and nosed at his hand to tell him it was time to go back inside. She led the way to the kitchen, probably hoping for a treat. A clatter of dishes made Victor smile. Yuri must have started cleaning up. The mental picture was adorable, because in his mind Yuri had somehow acquired a frilly apron and elbow length yellow rubber gloves. Victor didn’t own either of these items and was a little concerned about the specificity of the image. Did he have an unexplored housekeeper kink?

The sight that greeted him, however, was decidedly less cute. Yuri had finished with the plates, and was running water over his skillet, humming softly. Time slowed as he reached for the bottle of dish soap. An inhuman sound ripped from Victor’s throat as he lunged for Yuri, knocking him away from the sink and grabbing his beloved skillet. He cradled it gently to his chest.

Yuri gave him an appalled look. “ _What_ is wrong with you?”

Victor half-turned, casting a venomous look over his shoulder, caressing the black metal, running his fingers over the surface. Soap-free - _thank god_ , he had been fast enough. Yuri’s expression had softened from shock to incredulous amusement. “I’m so sorry, baby -”

“Um, that’s okay, but -”

“Not you!” Victor hissed at Yuri before turning back to his pan, “Are you okay darling? Did the bad man hurt you? Show me where he touched you.”

“Victor, you’re getting grease all over yourself,” Yuri commented, sipping his coffee.

“Oh, right.” Victor turned back around, and scoured out the skillet in the sink, applying a fresh coat of oil and placed it in the still-warm oven to dry.

Yuri watched the process with interest. “So, dare I ask what that was about?”

“Never, NEVER, use soap on cast iron. That is all you need to know.” Dimly, Victor realized that he sounded unhinged.

“Are you always this dramatic?” Yuri asked.

“Yes, definitely, one-hundred percent.” Victor said firmly, but with a tentative smile. “Do you mind too much?”

Yuri looked thoughtful. “No,” he said eventually, “I mean, you startled me, but I like the way you get excited about things.”

“Oh?” Victor asked, stepping close, “I bet you can think of something that would excite me.”

“Um,” Yuri croaked, as Victor leaned over him, bending him back over the counter.

“Yes? What did you think of, just now?”

“You," Yuri swallowed, "you’re getting grease everywhere.”

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kermit Ruffins: Bug Butter and Egg Man


	8. St. James Infirmary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, no one suffers any physical harm. It's just a spooky song for a Halloween party. Some of the heavier tags come into play. If you have concerns, please see the content warning in the end notes before proceeding.

“Hey, Yuri, what are you going to wear for Halloween?” 

“What?” 

Phichit rolled their eyes. “Halloween? The only good American holiday? Candy, scary movies? Costumes? What is yours?” 

“Oh, I hadn’t really thought about it. Aren’t we kind of old for that?” 

“Yuri!” Phichit gasped, “You shut your lying mouth!” They were walking backwards ahead of Yuri, hands tucked into the pockets of the blaze-orange hoodie they had insisted on buying at the feed store out on Jefferson. At least Yuri had talked them out of the silkie chicken they had wanted to bring home. “Besides, we live in New Orleans, now. This city will take any excuse to get fancy and fucked up.” 

“Well, I don’t really have anything planned.” 

“What, no hot date with Victor? What about a return engagement at the Oz?” They were teasing, and Yuri wanted to find it as funny as everyone else seemed to but he couldn’t summon much amusement when he felt so out of control. Something must have shown on his face, because Phichit changed the subject. “Sorry,” they dropped back to walk beside Yuri. “One of my friends from the shop works at Zeitgeist, you know, that experimental theater? Anyway, she says they’re having a Halloween shindig. B-movie marathon, costume contest, drinks, popcorn. I was thinking about going. I was trying to subtly steer the conversation to inviting you, but I didn’t want to make you feel bad if you had something else planned.” They grinned and Yuri started planning a burnt offering to the god of roommates. He really had gotten lucky with Phichit. 

“We actually haven’t talked about it.” Yuri found himself frowning thoughtfully. “Come to think about it, we haven’t talked about much.” 

“Uh huh,” Phichit said, skepticism dripping from every word. “I understand. Too _busy_ to talk, I suppose.” 

“Not like that!” Yuri squawked, even though it was at least a little bit like that. “No, we just haven’t had a serious ‘what are we doing here’ conversation yet, which is fine.” 

“Fine, uh-huh, sure.” 

“Yes, Phichit. It’s fine. We’re keeping it light.” 

“Uh, I hate to point this out, Yuri, but in the, what, three months we’ve lived together, I may have noticed that you have the tiniest tendency not to ‘keep things light.’ You’re kind of an all-or-nothing guy.” 

Yuri wanted to disagree, but he really couldn’t. Phichit was right, as usual. Yuri had somehow given Victor the impression that he was cool and fun, and not an absolute mess who barely got through most days without dissolving into a puddle of panic and tears on the nearest flat surface. It was nice to play the part of the confident, sexy guy for a change, but Yuri knew that he would screw it up sooner or later. Probably sooner. Who could really blame him for holding part of himself back? He needed to keep a chunk of his heart out of harm’s way. 

Phichit ignored his silence and went on, “Anyway, you should invite him, because whatever you two are doing, Halloween is for sexy costumes and getting shit-faced. It’s the perfect excuse to stop worrying about which French immersion preschool you two are sending your future puppies to, and just have stupid sexy fun.”

Okay, fine. Yuri could do stupid sexy fun. He might even be good at it. There was absolutely no problem.

~~

Victor, predictably, had been absolutely over the moon about the idea. He’d replied to Yuri’s texted invitation with a string of emojis that seemed affirmative, even if Yuri couldn’t figure out what a can of tomato sauce had to do with anything. 

Yuri had just finished dressing and was fiddling with the straps of his mask when he heard Victor’s Subaru pull up outside. They were planning to share a Lyft to the theater. Phichit was still putting the finishing touches on their outfit, so Yuri went out to say hello. 

“Oh, hello, Yuri!”

Yuri’s shoulders rose as he startled, “Hi, Miss Rosie,” he said, looking up the staircase to his neighbor. His costume was recycled from a ballet interpretation of the Little Prince in which Yuri had played the fox. The velour bodysuit felt a lot more revealing in front of his elderly landlady than he had anticipated.

“Yuri!” Victor had emerged from the station wagon wearing the loudest suit and skinniest tie that Yuri had ever seen. He had slicked his hair back and drawn a skinny mustache immediately over his upper lip. He pulled out a plastic flamingo from behind his back with a flourish and Yuri groaned. “Hello!” He waved brightly at Rosie.

“Hello! You must be a friend of Yuri and Phichit?”

“I’m Victor. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“Call me Rosie,” she smiled, scooping up a cat that tried to sneak past her on the stairs. She paused, looking thoughtful. “I feel like I’ve met you before. What do you do?”

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. I’m a musician slash librarian. It’s not as glamorous as you might imagine.”

“That’s it, then. You played at a wedding at our church.”

Victor brightened, “Oh, do you go to St. Charles? You must mean Chris and Massimo’s wedding.” Yuri looked back and forth between the two of them with increasing skepticism.

She nodded, “They are such sweethearts.” She caught Yuri’s eye. “I’m sorry dear, don’t let me keep you. It looks like you have big plans.”

“Yes, Yuri, I can’t wait to see your costume,” Victor said with a very John Waters-esque leer.

Yuri waved at Rosie and led Victor inside. “So, this is my place,” he gestured around. “I can’t take much credit for it. Phichit did most of the decorating.”

“It’s really nice,” Victor said, “You always see these apartments uptown, but I’ve never been inside of one.” He looked curiously around, examining the books on the shelves, and the framed prints on the walls. “Can I see your room?”

“Sure, but I warn you, it’s pretty boring.” He opened the door, acutely aware of how spartan it seemed. There was nothing on the walls except for a large poster of Nureyev. Victor’s attention was immediately drawn to Yuri’s record collection. Which was natural, since there wasn’t much else to look at, unless Victor had a very strange laundry fetish.

“Ooh, cool, they’re all Japanese releases.”

“Well, yes, Victor. What did you expect?” Victor had immediately plopped himself on the floor and was curiously flipping through the stack. 

"You could call me Vitya, if you wanted to," Victor said in the kind of casual tone that meant it was actually very important to him.

"Vitya?" Yuri tested the name. "Like, a nickname?"

Victor shrugged. "You could say that. It's what the people who are close to me call me." He pulled a record out of the stack and looked wryly at Yuri. He blushed. It was _Stammi Vicino._

“This actually explains a lot,” Victor commented, looking at the very bland cover image of crepe myrtle blossoms. “The US release has a really unflattering picture of me on the front. I think I’m wearing a fedora.”

“Oh, yeah. I had no idea what you looked like. Honestly, I kind of pictured a much older guy. You know, grey hair, balding, everything.” He stood and made a big show of peering closely at the crown of Victor’s head, gently prodding it with his index finger as if checking something. Victor gasped and clutched at his head.

“Is it really that thin? Yuri, you’d tell me, right?”

“It’s fine, _Vitya_.” He sat on the edge of his bed, letting his knee drift against Victor’s shoulder.

“Oh, Yuri! You have wounded me!” He collapsed to the floor, covering his head, “I can’t believe that you would be so cruel.”

“So this is what you two get up to,” Phichit commented, leaning against the frame of Yuri’s door. 

“Oh my god, Phichit!” Yuri exclaimed, glad for a distraction. “You look amazing.”

“Of course,” they said modestly. “If you seek an answer to the question ‘who is more glam than David Bowie?’ the only possible answer is Phichit Chulanont.” 

Victor sat up, “So where are the spiders?”

Phichit reached into a red vinyl purse and retrieved a hamster. They had somehow, improbably, sewn a tiny spider costume for it. They smiled at Victor and Yuri’s incredulous looks. “Don’t worry, he’s staying home. It’s not comfortable enough to wear for long. I do need you to take some pictures for me, though.”

“Definitely.”

“So, Yuri, what are you?”

Oh, right. “Yeah, I’m definitely the loser here. I just recycled an old ballet costume. Here, my mask is in the kitchen.” With a little help from Victor, he got the large fox head on. It made everything echo-y but there was a nice feeling of anonymity when he peered out through the eyeholes. He turned the mask to Victor, “ ‘Tu ne dois pas l’oublier. Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé.’ ”

“Oh, are you tame, then?” Victor voice was warm and sweet and almost as intoxicating as the whiskey he’d sipped while he was dressing.

“Pas encore,” Yuri replied.

Phichit cleared their throat. “Okay, guys, there are children present.” They looked at the clock. “C’mon, our ride will be here in ten minutes. It’s Instagram time.”

~~

Victor’s costume was, predictably, a huge hit with the movie buffs at the party, and he was immediately accosted by a large individual dressed as Divine for selfies. Phichit was similar popular, and was recruited for karaoke by some of their theatrical co-horts. Yuri found himself standing awkwardly in the lobby, trailing after his more popular friends. A detour to the bar revealed the flaw in his brilliant costume plan, but the problem was solved when the bartender offered him a straw long enough to sip through the neck-nole of the large papier-mâché fox head. 

It didn’t take too long for Yuri to realize the other problem with his costume. Anonymity, it turned out, was a double-edged sword. Sure, he could drift along, mostly ignored but, other than Phichit and Victor, no one would recognize him, which meant that he would have to approach and initiate a conversation, if he wanted to talk to anyone and that, in turn, meant that he was pretty much doomed to trail forlornly behind his friends, lurking awkwardly on the outskirts of conversations. 

He passed Minami, who was impatiently explaining that, no, he was not James Bond, he was Fred Astaire from Royal Wedding, thank you very much. He recognized JJ, an annoying frat boy who was in Yuri’s Brazilian dance class for some unfathomable reason. Even worse, he was actually good. Like, really good. It was infuriating. He was dressed as Superman and, safe in his vulpine isolation chamber, Yuri rolled his eyes as JJ posed dramatically for a pretty girl in a Wonder Woman costume. He felt like the moon, aloof and alone in his distant orbit.

Victor’s voice caught Yuri’s attention through the muffling of the mask. This was getting old. “I brought you a drink,” he offered, “Scotch, right?”

Yuri actually hated scotch, but he was starting to feel a little bit more relaxed after his first drink. So he took the plastic cup and clicked it against Victor’s cup of something clear. Vodka, probably, that seemed like what a Russian was supposed to drink.

“Well, kanpai, then.” He swallowed the cupful in a much larger gulp than he’d intended.

“Za lyubov,” Victor toasted. His voice sounded a little, what? Serious, maybe.

“I thought it was _nostrovie_?” 

“Sure, eef you are villain een Bond movie.” Victor teased and Yuri laughed a little.

“Well, Comrade, my cup runneth dry. Should we see what else is happening?” They waded into the sea of costumes. 

~~

Victor, of course, knew everyone, and he tried, Yuri could tell, but it wasn’t fair to expect him to bear the whole weight of Yuri’s awkwardness. He introduced Yuri to as many people as he could, but Yuri’s head was swimming with faces and names, and he knew, absolutely knew, that there was no way he would recognize anyone if he saw them again. Yuri was watching him. He’d finished his drink a half hour ago, but made no move to get another, and yet, here he was, talking to a severe looking woman about “elsaps” and “outcome measures” and “mark records.”

“Okay, see you Monday, Lilian!” He waved as she breezed off, Hogwart’s robes streaming behind her. “Sorry about that, Yuri. That was my boss. She’s a Slytherin.” He said this as if those words meant anything other than that, surely, _now_ they would get another drink. But, no, _now_ they were apparently going to sign themselves up for the costume contest. Then they were going to get on the list for karaoke. Victor was torn between “Jolene” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” They agreed on a duet of “I Want You (to want me).” At least Yuri knew the lyrics to that one.

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” he shouted in Victor’s ear over the applause for Phichit’s rendition of “Space Oddity.”

“Ok!”

“Do you want a drink?”

“What?”

“Never mind! I’ll be right back!”

He wasn’t, though. On the way to the bathroom, he procured another whiskey, which he polished off immediately. The line for the bathroom was blessedly short, and Yuri was glad that of all his costumes he’d at least had the foresight to select one that didn’t require him to completely strip in order to piss. On the way back he stopped at the bar again and grabbed another drink for himself, along with a vodka for Victor.

The eyeholes limited Yuri’s peripheral vision, and the scotch limited his equilibrium, so when someone grabbed his ass, he all but stumbled into their arms. He relaxed quickly, pleased that Victor had found him, and swayed back into the touch.

An unfamiliar voice filtered through the muffled party noise, “What are you supposed to be?” Yuri froze.

“Uh, I’m a fox,” he squeaked.

Whoever it was laughed and leaned close. Yuri could feel hot wet breath on his shoulder and the touch turned into a caress. Yuri couldn’t breath. He needed to be somewhere else right now, needed to get the mask off, but he couldn’t do that because he didn’t want to see this person, didn’t want to risk it being someone he knew, didn’t want them to know him… 

“Heh, damn right you is.” 

Yuri yanked his shoulder back, earning himself a slap on the ass and another laugh as he shoved his way into the darkened theater, ignoring several grunts of disapproval as he pushed past the other partyers.

He plopped into a seat in the back row and yanked his mask off, making himself breath - in through the nose for four seconds, hold for seven, out through the mouth for eight - until his hands stopped shaking enough for him to drink his whiskey. _Fuck it. Fuck all this. Fuck people, fucks friends, fuck fun, and fuck mother-fucking Halloween._ He slammed Victor’s drink too, for good measure. _Whatever. He should have been there. Somehow, magically, Victor was supposed to know what was happening, so fuck him, too._ Yuri folded his arms around himself and drew his feet up onto the seat. Robots were shooting lasers at teenagers on the screen, and finally, finally, Yuri started to float away from himself a little, started to get a nice little numbness.

A slice of light splintered across the aisle, and even though it was blindingly bright in the movie theater, Yuri couldn’t mistake that tall slim figure in the world’s awfullest suit. He lifted an arm and gave Victor a tired sort of wave.

“Hey,” he whispered cheerfully, as he took the seat next to Yuri. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.” He glanced at the screen, “Ooh! Boobies!”

“Yeah, those are definitely tits,” Yuri leaned mumbled against his knees. He was having a little trouble focusing, so there were probably twice as many tits as there were supposed to be.

“You okay?”

“Oh, yeah, yes, definitely, no problem!” Yuri replied, adding a thumbs up for emphasis and hoping that Victor would stop asking so many questions if Yuri could just be emphatic enough. He could feel the horrible concern on Victor’s face even though it was dark and his eyes were glued to the screen. There sure were a lot of boobs in this movie. They were bouncing as the girls ran away from the robots and Yuri felt a little seasick.

Victor didn’t say anything for a second, and Yuri felt, rather than saw, him shake his head. “Yuri,” he started, but Yuri didn’t want to hear the rest. He was going to ask questions, or worse, he would be sympathetic and understanding. Yuri realized that he was grinding his teeth. _Fuck This._

He stood up and ignored the spinning of his head. He ignored Victor’s exclamation when he climbed over the back of his seat and walked out of the theater. He ignored Victor yelling his name through the lobby. He ignored everything until Phichit caught up to him around the block. 

They touched his elbow and flinched when Yuri jerked it away. He felt like a monster. “Yuri, what happened?” 

Yuri’s face was wet and he couldn’t catch his breath. He had apparently also managed to ignore that, too. He wanted to say, _oh, nothing, I’m just tired_. He wanted to say, _yall have fun, I’m gonna go home and crash._ Instead, nothing would come out of his mouth but awful honking gasps. Then he saw Victor, hovering behind Phichit, eyes wide and sad and scared.

“Fuck this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis Armstrong: St. James Infirmary
> 
> CW: there's a first person description of getting groped in a party situation followed by a panic attack. There is also a first person description of alcohol consumption that could be triggering.


	9. What Will I Tell My Heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the chapter, let's end this.
> 
> AKA, I'm so sorry, yall.

Victor and Phichit wrangled a silent and sullen Katsuki Yuri into a Lyft and back to their apartment. Victor had made the apparent mistake of trying to touch Yuri's shoulder. The flinch he got in response convinced him to sit in the front seat. He noticed Phichit watching him in the side mirror when the streetlights illuminated the back seat. The smile he managed in return felt like a grimace. Phichit's wasn't in much better shape. For his part, Yuri bent forward, forearms on knees, head resting against the back of the driver's seat. Victor wasn't sure if he was asleep, passed out, or avoiding them. It turned out to be the latter. As soon as they stopped in front of the apartment, Yuri practically bolted from the car and disappeared through the front door. Phichit followed with a sigh. 

Victor hesitated, wondering if he should just have the Lyft bring him home. Phichit noticed and nodded toward the door. "Come on," they said softly. Victor followed. "I'm gonna see if he needs anything." They looked at Victor, standing in the middle of the living room, clutching the plastic flamingo that had somehow stuck with him the whole night. "Stick around for a bit?" 

Victor nodded and sat down on the couch. He could hear a soft response when Phichit knocked at Yuri's door, then the quiet murmur of voices. Victor caught himself straining to hear more, the tension increasing every time he thought he heard his name. He cursed at himself and stood up, throwing the flamingo on the couch. It bounced off and fell to the floor with a clatter that made him wince. The voices stopped for a moment, then went on. Victor stalked to the kitchen. A little bit of judicious rummaging revealed teabags and a kettle. He usually avoided caffeine after five, because he was apparently an old man. He didn't think that sleep would be in the cards for him tonight no matter how good his sleep hygiene. 

He opened the tea bag and spun it around his fingers, holding the tag, then he reversed the direction, letting the string wind around his index finger the other way. After the sixth time, he realized what he was doing. He placed the bag in a cup, thought for a second and grabbed a mug for Phichit, too. He wiped his palms on his thighs. After a moment he realized that he’d been drumming a 5/4 rhythm on his thighs. He made himself stop that, too. The whistle of the kettle felt like it was coming from his own brain. By the time Phichit came back, Victor was sitting at the table, sipping a cup of tea and hoping he looked more composed than he felt. He tried to smile at Phichit, but the expression slid off his face before he could catch it. He pushed the other mug across the table. 

"Thanks," Phichit said. They had taken off the bright red mullet and platform shoes. Their black hair was still tucked up in a wig band. They looked tired. 

"So, I don't know how to get into this delicately," Phichit began, “but - “ 

"Is he okay?" The question exploded out of Victor before he could stop himself from interrupting.

Phichit shrugged, which was less than reassuring. "I don't really know. Victor, you and Yuri are a thing, right?”

Victor closed his eyes. “I think so? I hope so, at least. I want us to be.” That seemed like something Victor should have had a more definitive answer for. Wishful thinking doppler strikes again, he thought. Sure, they had talked about a lot of things, and they had _not-talked_ about even more. Maybe the not-talking part was all Yuri wanted from him. Victor was suddenly realizing that there were a lot of conversations they hadn’t had yet, including the one that Phichit was apparently trying to have with him.

“Um, well, has he talked to you about, um, how he is?”

Victor narrowed his eyes. _That was very clear, thank you, Phichit._ They overheard Victor's mental snarking and rolled their eyes in sympathy. Victor hadn't noticed earlier that Phichit had even gotten colored contacts for their costume. He admired the dedication. 

"I know. I'm trying not to betray a confidence." They frowned thoughtfully. "Look, you're going to have to talk to Yuri about this, because if he hasn’t talked to you about it, I really don’t feel great about getting into it. But, in living with him, I may have observed that he's pretty anxious, like, all the time. And the poor lad's self image is, like, not just below sea-level low, it's, like, deep ocean hydrothermal vent low. With Hoff crabs and tube worms and everything."

"You lost me."

"Sorry, i like to get high and watch ocean documentaries."

"Who doesn't?"

"Right? Anyway, you know how Yuri's, like, a moderately famous world class ballet Dancer? Or would be ifI was _really_ his social media manager."

"Um, yes?"

”I may have heard him describe himself as a 'washed-up, out-of-shape, soulless husk of a technically skilled but artistically bankrupt hack.' Then he starts talking about stress fractures and hip-impingement and how that means that he isn't even technical anymore."

Several pieces clicked in Victor's mind. "Ah." His heart hurt.

"So, here’s the disclaimer, just so we're clear: this isn't something he's told me, just observations that I have made on my own behalf, which are, therefore, mine to share. So, i don't know what happened tonight, but odds are good it wasn't something you did. If it was, though, don’t be fooled by my cuddly exterior - "

Victor groaned.

Phichit gave him a steely glare. “I can see that you have been the recipient of a shovel talk before. I will leave the rest to your imagination.” Victor shuddered dramatically, but he couldn’t shake the mental image of some sort of hamster based torture. He hoped Phichit wasn’t a Game of Thrones fan. Phichit quirked an eyebrow over the rim of their mug. "Just, when you talk to Yuri, keep all this in mind, ‘cuz he’s not in the most logical mental space right now. He’s blaming himself pretty hard for whatever happened, and I didn’t have much luck talking him down.”

"Phichit, are you breaking up with me? Because this sounds a lot like the 'it's not you it's me' speech." His voice didn't sound as light as he had intended.

“I just thought, maybe you should, I dunno, be prepared, or something." They stood up to rinse out the mug. "So, are you going home?"

Oh, that was the logical thing to do when the guy you were maybe-sort-of-dating refused to talk to you and went to bed alone, wasn't it? He wasn't eager to explain to Yurio that he was home early because he had been dumped by the guy he’d been maybe-sort-of-dating for a week had maybe-sort-of-dumped him. "Yeah, I guess so," he said, pulling up the app.

"Because," Phichit interrupted, "you could crash here if you're not good to drive." Victor's head jerked up, and he knew he looked like a golden retriever. "The couch is actually pretty comfortable. I fall asleep on it all the time." They gave Victor an uncertain smile.

~~ 

As Phichit promised, the couch was very comfortable. Phichit had even found him a fuzzy blanket and spare pillow. All of this hospitality didn't mean that Victor slept. He pretended to, sure, especially when he heard a bedroom door open and soft steps pad into the bathroom. He pretended extra hard a couple of minutes later when those same soft steps paused at the end of the hallway. Victor forgot to breath when he heard a hesitant creak on the wood floor of the living room before the footsteps fled back down the hall, leaving Victor's heart beating in his ears. 

By morning, Victor had exhausted himself, reviewing every conversation with Yuri, scripting out their every word. His brain kept finding the places where he had pushed too hard, been too enthusiastic, invaded Yuri's space, rambled through some stupid story that obviously wouldn't interest anyone else. Most of all, he reviewed every assumption that he had made about Yuri. Every time he was too distracted by Yuri’s beauty to realize that maybe a blush and a stammer meant genuine discomfort and not coy flirtation itched in his memory and made him ashamed of himself. When grey light started to crawl its way across the kitchen floor he gave up and set about brewing coffee as quietly as he could. Some shitty little corner of his brain pointed out that this was a lot of angst over one hook up, and went on to remind him that normal people often enjoyed casual sex, and that Victor was usually one of them. It went on to helpfully point out that Yuri had actually not expressed any interest in a relationship. Sex, yes, sure, but victor was pretty sure that everything else had come from him. He really didn't ever learn, did he?

He poured a second cup of coffee and turned to resume his vigil on the couch. He stopped short, sloshing hot coffee onto his hand. Yuri stood in the entry to the kitchen, shoulders hunched, and fingers clenched into fists at his side. He wasn't wearing glasses, and he looked somehow younger and more vulnerable without them. Iit occurred to Victor that, of course, Yuri hadn't known he was still there. Victor had invaded his space again and Yuri didn't look happy about it.

He stayed frozen for a moment, and then, visibly setting his jaw, stepped onto the cracking linoleum. Victor looked down at Yuri's bare feet. The nail on his left big toe was blackened and there was a strip of dingy athletic tape wrapped around the arch of his right foot. The bone behind his little toes stuck out and sported a matching callus, dry and gnarly, on both feet. Yuri flexed his toes a little and Victor looked up. His heart sped up in a fluttering of wild hope when he saw the smallest hint of a smile at the edges of Yuri's lips.

"You look ridiculous." Victor looked down at his puce suit and skinny tie, now rumpled from a night on the couch. "Your mustache is smeared."

Victor touched his upper lip as Yuri walked past him and filled mug with coffee. He sat at the table with a heavy sigh and pressed the warm mug against his forehead.

“Headache?” Victor asked, careful to keep any trace of judgment from his voice.

Yuri flinched defensively anyway.

“So, um, does this happen often?” Victor registered that this sounded more accusatory than he had intended, but he was exhausted.

“What?” Yuri’s voice was flat.

He was screwing this up, he knew it. “This, you know, sort of thing,” said Victor helplessly, “last night?”

“Oh, you mean, ‘Hey, Yuri, do you get wasted and freak out and ruin everyone's Halloween on a regular basis?’ Is that the _sort of thing_ you mean?”

Victor winced at that. “Not...exactly. More like, is the getting wasted part of that a ...problem? I just was thinking about the other time.”

Yuri snorted. “Vitya, i have so many problems. I don't think i can narrow it down to just alcohol. Half the time it's the problem and the other half it's the solution to all the rest of them.”

See? _It was you. You’re too much. You drove the poor man to drink._ “Oh.” He looked up to see Yuri staring pointedly out the window. He could hear the gentle _hooorp_ of a mourning dove outside the window. “I wish I'd known you weren't having fun.”

“I’m sorry, Vitya. I thought I could be who you wanted. You were having fun, so I thought, cool, I can be this guy,” Victor couldn’t take his eyes off of Yuri’s face. It was calm, blank, almost unnaturally still. “But, when I’m with you, I can’t keep track of me. I forget who I am, what I want.” Yeah, his eyes were pointed at Victor, but he wasn’t looking at Victor. Those wide brown eyes that normally caught the light and sent it back, warmed into bronze sparks, were dull. 

This was bad. This was so much worse than Victor had worried, even in his darkest imaginings. He hadn’t just fooled himself into thinking that Yuri wanted to be with him, he had, what? Forced Yuri to be someone he wasn’t? Oh god, had Yuri felt like he had to - “Wait, Yuri,” Victor thought he might throw up. “Are you saying? When we...did you not want?”

Yuri looked startled, and for the briefest moment, the cold mask of his face softened, and Victor could see the Yuri that he knew - thought he knew. “No! No. Victor, that's not what i meant. Of course i wanted that.” His hand twitched toward Victor like maybe he would reach across the table, but he just held tighter to his mug. The mug had a dalmation on it.

Victor swallowed, unable to say anything. Whatever Yuri might say next, he knew that he had somehow done this. He had made Yuri feel like he had to change or hide something of himself.

Yuri went on, quietly, thoughtfully. “I mean, of course I wanted _that_...it's just the rest, I don't know how to…”

He wouldn’t beg. He didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. “Me either, obviously, I don’t know how to -” _Damn it, Victor._ “But we could figure it out.”

“We barely know each other, _Victor_.” He said it like truth, just a matter of fact reminder that this was all in Victor’s head.

Victor wanted, though. He wanted to know Yuri, and not just Yuri. He wanted to figure out who _Victor_ was behind the boredom and the deep well of loneliness that Yuri had dropped a shiny quarter into. He wanted Yuri to know him, too. He couldn’t say that, though. Instead he sounded petty and offended. “I thought we were starting to get to know each other pretty well.” 

Yuri have him a bitter smile. “Obviously not, if this was at all surprising to you. Look, I think I need...I need a little time, okay. You should probably think about this, too. You might realize that you don’t want someone who’s quite so much work.”

“What? Yuri, don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you think we should end this.”

“Maybe we should!” Yuri looked as startled as Victor at the edge in his voice. He went on, quieter, but just as intense. “Victor, I don't know who I am when I'm with you! It's too much. You're too much!”

There it was. There wasn’t really anything else to say then, was there? “Oh. Okay. Yeah, yes, You're right. I am.” He knew how he sounded. Pathetic. Passive aggressive. 

“Vitya, that's not what i mean.”

“No, Yuri, you're right.” The dalmation on Yuri’s mug was getting blurry. _Damn it_.

“Are you crying?”

Victor wanted to shake his head and deny it. Instead he just close his eyes. A tear dropped to his knuckle. He felt a tentative touch, wiping it away. “Yuri.”

“I just didn't expect you to cry.”

“I'm mad, okay?” He wasn’t, but it sounded better than to admit the truth. The truth that no one had really ever wanted to stay with him for long. The truth that he had learned to leave before someone else could. That Yuri was the first person that he had risked feeling this much for in a decade.

Yuri’s voice was soft. “I'm sorry. Look, I'm not saying I don't want... I just need some space to work some stuff out.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s not make a decision until later. Can I call you, in a couple of weeks, maybe?”

“Okay.”

Yuri sighed, and Victor looked up to see him rake his hands through his thick hair. “Stop saying it like that.”

“How do you want me to say it?”

“Just...say it like, i dunno, like yourself.” There was a desperate edge in Yuri’s voice. “I just want you to be yourself again.”

“I would, but apparently that's too much.”

“Vitya -”

“I should go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ella Fitzgerald: What Will I Tell My Heart?


	10. Free Your Mind (and Your Ass Will Follow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yall, I just love Phichit so much.

Victor Nikiforov was bored. The library was, however, not dead. Wednesdays were usually busy: students were finally getting into serious report writing season and Victor had about three teachers to follow up with about tours, and another half dozen research holds to place for various schools. There was currently a line four deep at the desk - mostly over-involved parents who would probably be writing the papers for their children - and several more people waiting for Sara at the self-check. Eugene was waiting for help setting up a new Christian Mingle profile, and Mrs. Metoyer had found a lost aunt that she wanted to look up on Heritage Quest. It should have been an interesting day, by library standards, and yet, here Victor was: bored, numb, snappish.

It had been a week since Halloween. He’d heard nothing from Yuri. He only had about thirty texts sitting in his drafts, just waiting for him to hit the send button. They ranged in tone from plaintive and pathetic all the way to defiant and accusatory. He’d deleted all of the sincere and declarative ones as soon as he read the words to himself. 

“Okay, Victor. It’s time for lunch.” Sara sidled up next to him and grabbed his keyboard.

“What? No, it isn’t.”

“Sure it is,” she said with a cheerful glance at the patron. “I can take over, hon.” Her glance turned into a pointed glare when she directed it at Victor and promptly started redoing everything that Victor was ninety percent sure he had already done. 

He wandered out of the building with no particular destination in mind, just heading vaguely river-wards. Even though it was a brisk day, by New Orleans standards at least, the sun was warm enough that Victor took off his burgundy cardigan and slung it over one shoulder as he walked. He stopped for a granita at a PJs, craving the sweet hit of sugar and caffeine. He thought about stopping in at the DoubleTree to see if Massimo could hook him up with a cookie or two, but even that sounded like more socialization than he was willing to undertake.

Eventually he found himself at the riverfront. He leaned his forearms against the cold metal rails along the walking path, letting his hands dangle loose as he watched the gulls wheeling overhead, scolding each other and fighting over discarded crawfish shells and french fries. A big white pelican soared over the Mississippi, letting the tips of its wings trail in the brown water and disturbing a family of mallards. A row of ragged looking cormorants stood along a log, wings spread to dry, their long snakey necks all turned the same way. Victor liked the gulls best. They were loud and aggressive and graceful and melancholy all at the same time. He found them very relatable somehow.

His thoughts were interrupted by a foot to his lower back. “Hey, dickhead,” _kick_ , “I’ve been following you for twenty minutes,” _kick,_ “It’s a good thing I’m not, like, an assassin or something.”

Victor smirked. “Hi, Yurio.” He took a long sip of his granita. It was getting to the icy part. He gave it a shake. “Did you follow me all the way from the library?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Why didn’t you just say something, or text me?”

“Well, first of all, I yelled at you a bunch, but I guess your Lord Fucking Byron act drowned out everything else. And I left my phone at the shop.”

“Lord Byron, huh?”

“I’m a drop-out. I’m not stupid.” Yurio came to lean against the railing beside him. “What is your deal, lately? You’re acting weird, even by your standards.”

Victor cocked an eyebrow, looking at Yurio out of the corner of one eye. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, are you okay?” He sighed, and Victor could practically hear the eyeroll. “Not that I care, because you are awful.”

“Aw, Yurio!”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so sweet! I knew you loved me!” Yurio stiffened in panic as Victor lunged at him. He could hear Yurio’s teeth grinding in his ear as he hugged him.

“Oh god, gross.” Victor squeezed tighter, lifting Yurio off the ground. He was surprisingly light. “Victor, I will murder the shit out of you if you don’t put me down.” Victor just spun around. Yurio made a noise that sounded like a wounded koala.

When Victor put him down, he quickly backed away and grabbed the bicycle that he’d deposited on the pavement a few feet away. He maneuvered it between them, looking as menacing as a skinny teenager could manage. Victor caught his breath, and found the brief flare of excitement quickly dribbling away.

“Yeah, see? That’s what I mean, right there.” Yurio jabbed his finger in Victor’s face. “You look like your fucking dog died, man.” Yurio’s face turned white and his usually narrowed eyes went huge. “Oh shit. Makkachin’s okay, right?”

“Yeah, Makka’s fine.”

“Oh, thank god. You got dumped then, right?” 

Victor shrugged.

“God. You are so predictable. What did you do?”

“Hey!”

“I assume it was the inferior Yuri, right?”

Victor glanced back at the water, and smiled at the gull that was hovering expectantly over them.

“Well, he’s obviously stupid, then.” That sounded suspiciously supportive.

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Tch. Don’t get used to it. You’re an asshole and a weirdo, but it’s really depressing when you’re all mopey and shit. See? My motives continue to be one-hundred percent selfish.” He looked at Victor, his eyes a green flash as he held up one finger in inspiration. “Besides, I need a favor, and I’m gonna feel bad about asking you if you still have that look on your face.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Victor plastered on a feral toothy grin. “How’s this?”

“Grosser than usual.” Yurio looked down, “anyway, I wanted to tell you something.” Victor caught one of his rare smiles before he schooled his face back into its usual grumpy mask. “I found it.”

“A place?”

“Yeah.”

That may have been the only thing with the ability to snap Victor out of his self-absorption. “Really?! Yuri, that’s amazing!”

“Jeez. You’d think you were moving.”

“Ah, but my happiness, like yours, is purely selfish. I will finally get my couch back and maybe _someone_ will stop eating all of my ice cream.”

“As if. You know you’ll still need a dog-sitter. Besides, Makkachin would miss me. She likes me better than you.”

“So, how many couches am I gonna have to move? And what will you bribe me with?”

“Um, I’ll let you talk at me about your annoying boyfriend?”

“I don’t think he’s my boyfriend, Yurio.”

“If that’s what you think, then you’re even stupider than he is. Whatever.” He waved that line of conversation off. “Dedushka has to be out of the home by Monday morning, and I can pick up the key on Friday. Can you come to the home on Saturday?”

“Definitely. He’s at that place by Touro, right?” Victor pulled out his phone to set a reminder. If it wasn’t in his Google calendar he was pretty much guaranteed to forget it. He added a note to clean out the station wagon. Yurio hadn’t said it, but the old Outback was probably really the MVP in this situation. “Okay, what time?”

“I don’t care. Like, nine or something?”

“Okay.”

“Bring coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” 

~~

Yuri was getting really tired of Phichit’s looks. There were several, of course. Phichit had a very expressive face. Yuri was sick of the looks that Phichit seemed to reserve for him alone. There were at least six variations of _Hey, you okay there, buddy?_ There were also several _Bless your heart_ s and a handful of _Oh, so that’s the decision you’re making_. When Yuri was in a better mental place, he sometimes got, _Aw, lookit my smol shy boy!_ Right now the look was something along the lines of _Okay, you’re actually starting to freak me out._

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Phichit protested, sipping their tea. “Heading for the studio?” They made a show of looking at their wrist. Phichit wear a watch. “At eleven post menopause?” They set down their mug and went back to stroking the small brown hamster that was perched on a hand-towel. He was busily stuffing pumpkin seeds into his cheeks. Yuri thought this one was Charles Bronson, but he could have been wrong.

“Yes.”

“Weren’t you at the gym earlier? And didn’t you already have ballet today?” Phichit’s voice remained cautiously mild.

“Yes.”

“Yeah. Yuri, I know this isn’t really my business, but I’d feel bad if I didn’t say something. It just seems like you’re hitting the dancing pretty hard right now.”

“Well, the doctor finally cleared me to return to my regular training schedule. I have to make up for lost time.” When he said it like that it sounded completely reasonable, right? It didn’t sound in any way like someone who was desperate to make sure that he was too exhausted to think.

“Mmhm. Did this doctor also encourage skipping meals?”

“Phichit, I’m a dancer. I have to maintain my weight at a certain level. This stupid city doesn’t make it easy, and _you_ haven’t helped,” he snapped. Yuri took a step away from the door, but paused at the heavy sigh that was only slightly exaggerated for effect.

“Yuri, it’s cool if you don’t want to talk to me. But they’ve got people at the student health center. Hell, they’ve even got apps for this now, if you don’t want to talk to a face-to-face person. I think there’s even a fucking bot. I kinda think maybe you should see someone.”

Yuri wanted to be angry, but all the dancing must have started to work because instead he was just numb. Well, numb with a side of jittery energy that made him feel as out of control as if he was drunk. “Okay,” Yuri sighed, because maybe Phichit had a point. “Look, I’ll think about it.” Phichit’s eyes narrowed and they sat back, still petting the hamster. They looked like a Bond villain. “You know, one day you will be wrong about something,” Yuri said with a smile that was only a few miles away from genuine.

Phichit dismissed that with an airy wave, “Well, I was wrong about something last week, so it’ll be at least five years before the next one.”

Yuri summoned a small smile at that, “I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.”

“Never,” Phichit replied, as they shuffled down the hall with a yawn.

~~

Yuri had mentioned to Dean Cialdi that he liked to work at night and had, miraculously, been granted after hours access to a studio, with the understanding that scheduled rehearsals always had priority. Yuri suspected that “after hours” meant something else to Celestino that it did to Yuri, but he had no intention of turning down the offer. It was cold enough that Yuri jogged over to keep his muscles warm.

He retrieved the key from the belly of the little stone turtle nestled in the mulch beneath the azalea bush and let himself in. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, letting the orange-y glow of the street lamps illuminate the golden wood floor. He plugged his phone into the speaker and let itunes shuffle the entire library. He managed to restrain himself through a few barre exercises before the itch in his brain became too intense to hold back. He flung himself away from the barre in a line of _grand jetés_ and stratospheric _assemblés_. He threw in a _revoltade_ with just enough space not to kick the mirror. There was a hint of a twinge in his left ankle, but nothing exploded. He stripped off his sweatpants and shirt and flung them over his bag. He plopped down and wrapped some athletic tape around the balls of his feet and flexed his ankle a few times. Nothing seemed damaged, just stiff. 

Yuri had a secret superstitious side. He put a lot of faith in signs and omens and tended toward some light magical thinking. He had always harbored a secret suspicion that the universe was trying to keep him in line, to make sure that he didn’t start thinking crazy things, like that he could be happy. Intellectually he knew that this wasn’t the case, because at the other extreme, he believed that they were all floating in a impersonal and uncaring void. Experience, or maybe confirmation bias had taught him that if things seemed like they were going too well, there was an inevitable disaster lurking around the corner. Usually that disaster was himself. He had acquired the tendency to view pleasure with intense suspicion. This wouldn’t be the first time that his self-protective instincts had robbed him of something wonderful. He wondered if he would ever learn not to fear the things he wanted. 

As if it was reading his mind, the app served up a dose of Funkadelic. The singer was shouting, “I’m so confused about the whole thing, I can’t feel me, I can’t live me, I can’t be me. My mind, it does not belong to me...I can’t free my mind, so my ass can’t follow.” That was his problem, Yuri thought with an internal smirk. He had tried his hardest to free his ass, but his stubborn mind just would not follow. He’d been doing it in the wrong order. Besides, if both George Clinton and Phichit Chulanont were giving the same advice, he should probably take it.

He shuffled from one foot to the other, letting his hips twitch with thump of the bass drum. He spun on one heel and extended one leg into a jazzy sort of _developpé_. He let his body and the music carry him wherever it wanted, leaning back against the limits of his balance, spinning until dizzy, leaping until he was breathless. He danced to more Parliament-Funkadelic, to Gogol Bordello, to Judas Priest, to Dolly Parton and to Tuvan throat singers. He danced until he didn’t care what it looked like, until he could only care about the feeling of pushing his body to its limits, until he only cared about the joy of the movement.

Before Yuri knew it, he was halfway through the choreography for _Stammi Vicino_. The Universe apparently felt like he hadn’t gotten the message. Yuri had been avoiding Victor’s music, had been avoiding jazz altogether, as if afraid to explore that set of emotions. His heart was like Schrödinger’s Cat, both broken and unbroken, but he wouldn’t know until he opened the box. He had been fighting to keep the box closed a week, but now it turned out that the strain of not knowing was maybe even worse than burying a dead cat.

He could do this, he thought, letting his body sway, holding himself gently in his arms. He could make two phone calls tomorrow. One to the student health center, and another to Victor. He could admit to wanting something. He could risk opening the box. After all, the kingdom of heaven was within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funkadelic: Free Your Mind (and Your Ass Will Follow)


	11. Float and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adult communication? What's that?

Victor flung himself onto his (blessedly empty) couch. Makkachin padded over and stuck her cold nose into the crook between his neck and shoulder. He twitched to free a hand so that he could scratch her ears.

“Hi, girl.” She licked his neck, drawing out a reluctant smile. “I know. Yeah. It’s been a long week.” He sat up with a groan. The poodle backed away from the couch, ducking her head. She popped back up with a sharp bark, spinning in a circle, then bowing again, eyeing him expectantly. Of course. Dogs didn’t understand that when you have just spent a day herding two generations of opinionated and stressed-out Russians, a walk didn’t sound as appealing as they thought it did. “No, Makka. I’m sorry, I’m tired.” She tipped her head to the right, concern evident on her doggy face. “Look at me, I’m covered in cat hair,” he picked a long strand from his pants, “and dust. And look at my hands,” He held them out for her to examine. She tipped her head to the left. “My beautiful, talented hands!” She shoved her nose into his right palm, and he scratched her nose. “Look at them, Makkachin! Covered in hangnails and paper cuts! See how dry they are! No one tells you of the hazards of cardboard boxes.” She jumped back with a bark and another spin. No one understood his pain.

“Ok, girl. You win.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head. Something in his lower back popped with a distressing noise that he was sure was new since turning thirty. He should never have agreed to help someone move, no matter how good a friend they were. Especially not the night after a show.

The show had gone well, even if Victor’s heart wasn’t in it. He hadn’t been able to stop scanning the crowd for a tousled mop of black hair and the reflection of stage lights in those charming blue-framed glasses. He had to pull _Stammi Vicino_ out of the setlist. Instead he turned Georgi loose with a klezmer arrangement of Ravel’s _Bolero_ that he and Seung-il had been working on. 

Victor had spent the week wallowing shamelessly in sad songs and social media, but after the show he’d come home, flopped on the couch with Makkachin and eaten most of a pan of brownies along with an entire bottle of cheap red wine while compulsively scrolling through Twitter and Instagram in the vain hope that Yuri would have posted something. He wasn’t very active on social media, but a cryptic link to a Parliament/Funkadelic playlist on Youtube had appeared in the early hours of Thursday morning. He’d fallen into a restless snooze at around four, only to be startled awake by a reminder on his calendar and a cheerful fall day that had no respect for his desire to mope.

He spent far too long in the shower, and when he realized that his wardrobe was not exactly structured around manual labor, had cobbled together the most haphazard outfit imaginable. He glanced down at himself: cargo shorts that had no business in anyone’s closet in 2018 and a shirt advertising Hot Rod Drag Week. He was wearing thermal socks with hiking sandals. It was a far cry from the dapper Nikiforov Look that he had so carefully cultivated over the years. 

It didn’t matter, though. His dog needed him, and he had moped long enough for it to become boring. He left his phone on the charger, grabbed the leash and filled one pocket of his shorts with treats and another with bread. He knew those pockets had to be good for something. Then he and Makkachin made their way to the dog park.

~~

Dogs were magical, Victor reflected as he and Makkachin walked home. Makka had played with a labrador and a catahoula hound and had found something that smelled horrific to roll in. Victor, meanwhile, had befriended a French bulldog and a corgi ensconced within a cone of shame. Susan, who wrote grants for the City, had even come out and brought her “honorary dog,” a miniature horse that had been accepted by all of the neighborhood dogs without question. She laughed at Victor, tossing her long greying braids over her shoulder as he cooed over St. George and apologized for not bringing any treats for him.

When they got home, he wrestled Makkachin through a bath, then lingered in the shower, enjoying the sensation of literally washing the day away. His peace was abruptly shattered when he sat on his bed, still towelling off his hair. He picked up his phone absent-mindedly, planning to cue up a podcast or play some music while he worked on dinner. Instead, his notification screen greeted him with the message, “1 missed call: K Yuri <3.” There was no voice mail.

His wail of distress startled Makkachin so thoroughly that it took him fifteen minutes to coax her out of the closet and another fifteen minutes of apologies and coddling before she forgave him. 

Victor paced, he picked up the phone, set it down, wandered into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He started to get dressed, then gave up and pulled on some sweatpants. Finally, sitting in the middle of his bed, Makkachin’s head in his lap for moral support, he returned Yuri’s phone call. It took him several tries to convince himself to tap the little green phone.

It took four rings for Yuri to answer. “Hello?” Victor’s breath caught as he tried to reply. “Um, Victor?”

He swallowed. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi.”

He could hear Yuri’s exhale over the phone. “Hi.” There was a pause. “V-Victor, I -”

“Are you - ”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“No, you can go.” Silence thrummed through the speaker. Victor tried to imagine Yuri’s face. He suspected that he was biting his lip. He wondered if he had closed his eyes the way Victor had seen him do when he was thinking about something.

“I’m sorry,” the words were so soft that Victor had to strain to hear them. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Oh. Okay then.” His voice sounded flat, tinny in his own ears.

“No, I mean, the phone thing!” The words tumbled out into Victor’s ear, so fast that he wasn’t sure he caught them all, wasn’t sure that this wasn’t just his mind wishfully filling in the blanks. “I mean, that might not work either, but I’d like to try, but I was talking about the phones, because I’m not good with the phones thing, look. Can I just see you?”

“Um, what?” _Very smooth, Nikiforov._

“Sorry. Let me try that again.” Victor thought he could hear just the faintest promise of a smile in those words. “Victor, could I see you? I’m not very good on the phone.” He paused for a breath. “To be honest, I’m not very good in person, either, but could I just, see you? Please?”

“YES!” Makkachin gave him a look. “Sorry girl.”

“Are you talking to me?”

“Sorry. I woke Makkachin up.”

“You were sort of loud.” Yuri was definitely laughing at him, now.

“I think my neighbors are going to file a complaint.”

“So, tomorrow?”

_Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck._ “I...can’t.”

“Oh.”

“I want to!”

“I’m getting mixed messages, here.”

“No, I want to, but I promised... I must help Yurio move.” He grimaced, hoping that he sounded as regretful as he was.

“Oh. Well,” this time Victor could definitely picture the look of determination that accompanied the words, “I could, you know, help.”

Victor couldn’t resist. He burst into peals of laughter. 

“What? I can carry stuff. I’m not useless.” 

“No, that’s not why I laugh. You don’t have to do that! It’s incredibly not fun.”

Yuri was quiet for a moment. His voice was apologetic when he replied. “Well, you have done quite a few not-fun things for me. I can return the favor, if it would help.”

“Oh, thank god. We have to move a bed tomorrow, and Yurio is just 45 kilos of cat hair and spite. I need you, Yuri.” Victor wheedled, fully aware that he was being very selfish, but absolutely unwilling to deny himself a chance to spend time with Yuri. “Um, how’s your Russian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meklit Hadero: Float and Fall


	12. Giant Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri helps a bunch of Russians move a couch.

Phichit was watching Stephen Universe on the couch when Victor tapped at the door. They gave Yuri an apologetic look as he dashed past, toothbrush still in his mouth. Phichit was playing the “I can’t move, my hamsters are comfortable” card again. There were no less than four hamsters snuggled on Phichit’s lap. Yuri didn’t know exactly how many hamsters there actually were in the apartment, and he preferred it that way.

“Mmforry!” he mumbled as he opened the door. He had planned to be at least somewhat appealing when he saw Victor, but he had stayed up late playing out every possible disaster in his mind, and had overslept. Phichit had made a brief attempt at moral support, but after several snappish rebuttals to their suggestions had declared Yuri a lost cause and moved to the living room with the hamsters, leaving the bathroom blessedly vacant.

Victor looked immaculate, his jeans artfully faded, with a t-shirt that was just tight enough to show off the muscles in his chest, but not so much that it looked silly. He wore a black cardigan and green canvas sneakers. Yuri, meanwhile, had toothpaste dribbling from his lips and paint stains on his cargo shorts from the last time Phichit had recruited him to help with a set. His t-shirt read “BOOGIE LIKE BARYSHNIKOV” and had a mysterious stippling of holes across the belly. A particularly large glob of toothpaste started to make its way down his chin and forced him to confront the fact that he had just been staring at Victor, literally drooling. With a squeak, he clapped a hand over his mouth and held up the index finger of the other apologetically as he dashed to the bathroom. 

Victor and Phichit were chatting quietly when he came back, and Victor was nuzzling a small grey hamster. “Yuri! Say hello to Mr. Brynner!”

“We’ve met.” Victor, undeterred, held out the bundle of fur for Yuri. Yul Brynner looked at him in confusion, his nose twitching frantically, and shiny black eyes darting. Yuri tentatively accepted the hamster, stroking his soft back with one finger. He glanced up, realizing how close they were, only to see Victor quickly snap his eyes away from Yuri, like he’d been caught. Yuri watched the muscles in his jaw tighten as Victor took a step back. Phichit snorted, but Yuri ignored them. Still watching Victor’s face, he took a single deliberate step forward. Victor looked down, his eyes narrowed slightly, and Yuri risked a small smile.

In response, Victor’s expression lightened slightly. It hadn’t occurred to Yuri that Victor looked sad until he didn’t anymore. “Hi, Yuri!”

“Hi, Victor. You look...good.” 

“You too, Yuri. I’m glad you called.”

“Me too. Look, Victor, I -”

“Okay! I’m out. I can’t watch this.” Phichit bundled their furry companions into their sweatshirt and stood. “Look, you. Don’t fuck this up again.”

Yuri and Victor exchanged a glance. “Um, who are you talking to?”

“Both, duh. I’ve got my eye on you.” They pointed dramatically at their eyes, then at Victor and Yuri. “I swear to Sondheim, if I ever have to see either of you mope like that again, there will be blood.” They retrieved Yul from Yuri’s stunned grasp and swept off down the hall.

“So.”

“Yeah.”

““Was that?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal.”

“How many?”

“I’m afraid to ask. More than five, but less than twenty. I’m not too confident about that upper limit, though.”

“Huh. I like them.” Victor declared.

“Are you talking about my roomate or the hamsters?”

“Both, duh.”

~~

So, it was strange. There were a lot of things they needed to talk about, but Yuri wasn’t sure if they were doing that, yet, so he climbed into Victor’s passenger seat and looked around with interest. The old Subaru wagon smelled strongly of dog. Victor had folded down the backseat, and there was a mess of bungee cords and ratty blankets. A gym bag and running shoes had been wedged behind the driver’s seat. There was a bag of jerky in the center console and a dash cam plugged in to the cigarette lighter.

Victor noticed him looking and quirked an eyebrow at him. “So, what do you think of my valiant steed?”

“It’s very -” his mind went blank as he flailed for something that wouldn’t sound too critical “- very comfortable.”

“That’s euphemism for messy, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I kind of like it, actually.” He helped himself to a strip of jerky before offering the bag to Victor. He accepted with a smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, look at me. I’m kind of a mess right now. It’s nice, maybe, to see someone else’s mess for a change. I mean, look at you. You - you’re perfect. So far out of my league that we’re not even playing the same sport.”

Victor’s smile had grown strained. “Yuri -”

“Don’t. I know I look good on paper. That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re fun and kind. You’re a functional adult with a dog and a house and a job. You’re fucking brilliant and fucking beautiful. You probably even have health insurance.”

“Yeah, a PPO with Blue Cross of Louisiana. Is that really all you see?” Victor sounded upset. 

Yuri wasn’t saying this right. This wasn’t supposed to make Victor feel bad. He just wanted him to understand. “No. That’s not what I meant.” He looked down at his hands and realized that he’d been shredding the strip of jerky. He shoved a piece in his mouth and went on, not caring that he was talking with his mouth full. “Look at me.” He gestured to himself, hoping Victor would somehow see him, not just his ridiculous ensemble and his rumpled hair. He meant the circles under his eyes because he hadn’t slept. He meant the tears that seemed to always huddle at the corner of his eyes. He meant the both the stretch marks and the sharp knobs of his hip bones. He meant the curated outfit that he had laid neatly out last night in preparation for today, but had abandoned because it was safer not to look like he had tried too hard. He didn’t know how to put that into words. 

“Victor. I’m just _this_. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the fun sexy guy at the party. I’m usually the hide-in-the-corner-and-drink-myself-into-a-miserable-stupor guy. And that’s on the good day when i’ve convinced myself to go to a party!” He tried to wipe away his tears without looking like he was crying but his voice still sounded thick and weepy. It was humiliating. “What you saw, when we met, that was a fluke. The guy you saw last week? The one who has a panic attack and ruins everyone else’s good time? That’s who I am. I’m not like you. I’m not good at getting close to people. You shouldn’t feel bad when you decide it’s not worth the effort of dealing with my bullshit. If you take away my dancing, what’s left? Nothing you want to spend time with.”

Victor stared ahead, but his eyes had narrowed. “There’s _you_.” There was a ferocity in his voice that Yuri hadn’t expected. “I haven’t really been myself, either. I’ve been Fun Victor and Outgoing Victor, not Lonely Victor and Desperate Victor and Needy Victor, and the Victor who really needs you to call me Vitya again. Yuri, I was about to quit.” He reached over as if he was going to take Yuri’s hand, but he stopped himself and set his hand on the cracked vinyl of the gearshift. “Before I met you,” he clarified, “I was starting to wonder whether it was worth it, to keep making music, I mean. I hadn’t had any new ideas in years. I was sleepwalking through everything I did. I was going to give it up and go full time at the library. Maybe join a few committees, start applying for management positions. Then I saw you move, and I remembered what Art was. I wanted to make Art again for the first time in years.” Yuri couldn’t take his eyes off VIctor’s face, still staring intently through the windshield. “So, yeah, your dancing drew me to you, and I want you to know how much it inspired me as an artist. But that’s all Victor the guitarist talking. Me, I just know that being around you makes me happy, and I want keep being around you. You don’t even have to let me in, yet. Just, don’t shut me out. You should talk to me through a door, maybe, or a window.” Victor frowned and looked tentatively at Yuri. “I think my metaphor went astray.”

That was a lot to take in. Yuri sort of wanted to run away, but he’d done enough of that lately. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Can we finish this later? If we stay here much longer, Phichit going to come out and yell at us.” He looked at Victor. “I think we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, right Vitya?”

Victor’s face lit up at that, “Will we?” His eyes sparkled cartoonishly as he shifted the car into gear. “Okay, then, you have to be the DJ, because I have to focus on being responsible driver and teaching you Russian swear words. I don’t want you to feel left out.”

~~

Victor drove them along St. Charles, the live oaks dappling the light that came through the windshield. Yuri felt pleasantly relaxed and sleepy after his outburst. They had rolled down the windows in an attempt to de-doggify the car, and Yuri let his arm rest on the door, tapping in time to Dave Brubeck’s _Take Five_. He snuck the occasional look over at Victor. More often than not, he caught Victor returning the gaze and laughing with Yuri as he tripped over the pronunciation of the seemingly limitless Russian vulgarities. Yuri reciprocated, teaching Victor as many rude words as he could think of in Japanese, blushing the whole time.

They pulled up into a loading zone in front of the home. Victor had no sooner pulled out his phone, presumably to text Yurio, when the door behind Victor’s seat was roughly flung open. Yuri flinched at the noise, but Victor grinned.

“Hey, asshole, we’ve been waiting forever.” Yurio snapped at Victor. Yuri tentatively opened his door and stood. Yurio’s eyes went even more narrow, if possible. “What the actual fuck, Victor?”

“We needed help, Yuri volunteered.” Victor replied innocently.

“Tch.” Yurio stalked around the car, green eyes flashing. He backed Yuri up against the car, and shoved one bony finger into his sternum. “Listen, you,” he started, “I don’t know what you think you’re…” he paused in his tirade and glanced over at Victor, who was visibly quivering with ill-contained mirth. “Whatever. I don’t care. C’mon, loser, let’s move a couch.”

Victor gave him a fatalistic shrug. Yuri closed his door and walked around the car. Yurio’s grandfather had watched the whole interaction with an air of amused interest. Victor was leaning over his wheelchair and speaking to him in Russian. Yuri stepped close to pick up the large brown suitcase.

“Yuri! Meet Nikolai Plisetsky!” Despite the wheelchair, Nikolai looked more robust than Yuri had pictured. He had a full salt and pepper beard and wore a soft brown cap that combined to give him a very old-world appearance. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, despite his illness. It was hard to see any resemblance between him and his lean and feral grandson, until he turned a pair of piercing green eyes on Yuri.

“Um, hello sir. I’m Katsuki Yuri. It’s nice to meet you.”

Nikolai nodded with a grunt. At least it seemed like a relatively friendly grunt. Yuri hefted the suitcase which looked to be of Soviet vintage. He lugged it over to the trunk. Yurio shoved his shoulder into Yuri’s as he passed with just enough plausible deniability to not be _definitely_ deliberate. Yuri sighed as the suitcase banged into his shins. This had the potential to go down as the strangest date of Yuri’s experience, and he had once let someone take him to a mayonnaise-themed restaurant.

Nikolai said something to Yurio, who replied with a softer look than Yuri had ever seen on his face. He gave his grandfather’s shoulder a squeeze. “Okay, assholes. Dedushka says this place can kiss his ass. Let’s go.”

Oh. that was easy. Victor and Nikolai were talking in quick sussurent Russian as Yurio helped NIkolai into the passenger seat. Victor was nodding and gesturing. He spotted Yuri watching. “Sorry! Directions!” He bent to listen to Nikolai again.

“Yeah, the storage unit is out at the ass-end of town on Causeway,” Yurio grumbled to Yuri. “I think you should work some boyfriend mojo and convince Victor to buy us coffee on the way.”

“Um, I don’t know if I’m -”

“Ugh! Shut up, I don’t care. He’ll buy coffee if _you_ ask.” Yurio paused and glared at Yuri. “Wait. Were you seriously about to say you didn’t know if you were his boyfriend?”

Yuri nodded.

“Oh my god. You sound just like him. You two idiots really are a fucking match made in my own personal hell, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Whatever.”

“Okay! I think I know where we’re going, now.” They piled into the station wagon, Yurio wrinkling his nose at the smell.

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuri spoke up, “Could we grab some coffee on the way? Please?” Yurio gave him a subtle thumbs up.

“Yuri! That’s a great idea! Coffee for everyone! My treat,” Victor promised as he wrestled the old Subaru into gear. Yuri might have been imagining things, but he was fairly sure that Yurio’s mouth twitched into a brief smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Coltrane: Giant Steps
> 
> Bonus points if you have figured out Phichit's hamster naming scheme. Hint: he has seven.


	13. Emotional Weather Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This it it, for now! This wants to turn into a series, so stay tuned for some holiday stuff.

“What’d he say?” Yuri asked quietly. Yurio and Nikolai were unpacking boxes in the small galley kitchen while Victor organized the bookshelves and Yuri folded towels. Yuri hadn’t meant to eavesdrop; they were chatting quietly in Russian, and something Nikolai said made Yurio’s face light up like a little kid. Yuri couldn’t help but pry, just a little. Phichit was clearly a bad influence. Victor probably wouldn’t tell him if it was too personal.

“Hm? Oh, Nikolai said he’ll make pirozkhi once they get the kitchen set up.” 

“Pirozkhi?” Yuri asked. 

“Oh, they’re little dumpling, er, pie...things.” Victor tilted his head, listening to the conversation from the kitchen. “They’re Yurio’s favorite, I guess.” He set the last book on the shelf with satisfaction and stretched. “So, Yuri, what’s your favorite food?” 

“Huh?” He paused thoughtfully. “I like almost everything.” 

“Except dairy,” Victor amended. 

Yuri shook his head, correcting him. “I like dairy just fine. It doesn’t like me back.” He ducked as Yurio tossed an empty box at his head, “Hey!” 

Victor continued, not acknowledging the attack. “Anyway, I didn’t ask what you liked. What is your favorite?” 

“Oh, that’s easy.” Yuri grinned, blushing the slightest bit. “I would do hideous, illegal, vile things for my mother’s katsudon.” 

“What’s that?” Yurio asked, plopping onto the couch and prodding Yuri’s shoulder with the toe of his sneaker. 

“Um, yeah, it’s a fried pork cutlet with rice and egg and onions and stuff.” 

“Huh.” Yurio commented. “Well, I think me and Dedushka can take care of everything else.” 

Nikolai said something that sounded affirmative. Yurio replied with a side-eye at Yuri and Victor. 

Yuri looked his question at Victor who smirked, “Nikolai says he is tired and Yurio says he is sick of our stupid faces.” 

“That’s not what I said -” Yurio started. 

“I edited for time and content.” Victor replied. He stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and extended a hand to Yuri. He accepted gratefully. One of his feet was asleep and he teetered a little bit as he rose. 

Yurio was fidgeting slightly as he looked at Yuri. “Thank-you-both-for-your-help,” he muttered as quickly as possible. 

“Aw, you’re welcome Yurio!” Victor exclaimed, with that huge and sincere smile of his. He grabbed Yurio and hugged him, lifting him bodily. Yurio’s face was scrunched in irritation. Victor set him down and said something quiet to him. Yurio gave him a look that was somehow exasperated and pleased all at once, then turned a look toward Yuri.

“Look, Pork Cutlet, you didn’t have to help with this, but you did, so, I guess that's pretty cool of you.” He kept his eyes on Yuri even though the next thing he said was in Russian. Victor blushed, but he didn’t translate. 

Nikolai barked a laugh as he wheeled in from the kitchen. He extended a hand to Yuri, who shook it, still mystified. “Dasvidanya, Katsudon.” He smiled from behind his beard.

Yurio and Nikolai’s apartment wasn’t far from Lake Pontchartrain, so when Yuri suggested a walk, Victor was happy to agree. They parked by the Yacht Club and wandered out along a road lined with houses on one side and lake on the other, which terminated in a long jetty just a bit wider than the road. A couple of lonely palmettos rattled in the wind from the lake and a trio of coots bobbed just offshore. Yuri was quiet, turning his face into the breeze and closing his eyes. Victor shoved his hands into his pockets, so that he wouldn’t do something impulsive and scare Yuri off again. It was so hard not to reach for him. He looked away, across the lake. It was steel grey today, with a slight chop to the water. The sky seemed lower than usual. 

“Is it supposed to rain?” Victor looked toward Yuri. He still had his eyes closed and he pushed his hair back from his forehead, a slight smile stretching his lips. 

“I don’t know,” Victor replied. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?” 

Yuri nodded, opening his eyes. “This is nice. It kind of reminds me of home, with the gulls and everything.” 

“Yeah, it’s big enough for you to imagine that it’s the ocean. It doesn’t take long to get to the actual beach, though. Have you been, yet?” 

Yuri shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe we should go sometime.”

Victor swallowed. “I would like that.”

“Not until after Christmas, though. Nutcracker is going to be my life for the foreseeable future,” Yuri said with a grimace. 

“Oh? Are you dancing?” 

“Well, I’m mostly helping rehearse several squadrons of children with _very_ involved parents, but, yeah, I’m also dancing Drosselmeyer and a Russian.” 

“Oh, well, if you need any tips, I would be happy to help,” Victor said, laying the accent on thick and false, like a Bond villain. 

Yuri smirked, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Yuri! You wound me. I’ll have you know that my _Hopak_ is second to none.” He took a couple of big steps and turned back to face Yuri, dropping into a deep squat, and folding his arms. He managed a couple of squats and kicks before he gave up at a sharp pain in his hamstring. Yuri gave him a withering stare, but he quickly gave up, dissolving into laughter as Victor frantically clutched at his thigh, sitting on the sidewalk. 

Yuri stepped around him, his body language immediately shifting into performance mode, gaze sharp enough to cut Victor in two. He held his eyes for a second before exploding into motion, the athletic jumps and squats of the Ukrainian _Hopak_ combined with the handstands and flares of break dance and the presentational formality of ballet. He didn’t dance long, and maybe it looked a little silly in cargo shorts and sneakers, but Victor didn’t care. A fisherman applauded from the edge of the jetty, and Yuri gave him a wave before stepping back to Victor’s side, closer this time. He wasn’t even winded. 

“Is that the actual choreography or were you just messing around?” 

“Little column A, little column B. We’re still figuring it out. They invited me to choreograph that one and the Arabian Dance, but I can’t help but think they’ll want something more traditional than what I have planned.” The back of his knuckles brushed against Victor’s fingers. Victor moved to put his hand back in his pocket, but Yuri grabbed it, looking up at him seriously. “Hey, Vitya? I’m really sorry about everything. You must feel like...I know I’ve been kind of hot and cold.” 

“I...I mean, yeah, I haven’t really known what to think.” He squeezed Yuri’s hand. “Sometimes it seems like you’re with me, and other times it feels like, I don’t know, like I’m making you uncomfortable or I don’t know: like we’re not on the same page at all.” 

“Yeah. We might not be, but we probably wouldn’t know, since we haven’t talked about it. I started seeing someone.” 

Victor’s inhalation stuck in his throat at the words, and he tried to withdraw his hand. “Oh, Uh -” 

Yuri just grabbed it tighter. “Started seeing a therapist, Vitya. Sorry.”

“Oh, okay. That’s good, then.” 

“I hope so. But, anyway, she pointed out the obvious thing, that no one knows what’s going on with me if I don’t tell them. Usually I try to keep everything in, because I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. But she, uh, totally called me on my bullshit.” He gave Victor a sly look, “Because I guess shutting out all of the people who lo-, uh, worry about me, is probably still kind of inconvenient for them.” He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “So, I’m working on that.” 

“Oh, well, that’s good, then. If we’re going to be a thing, I want you to feel like you can tell me what’s going on, even if what’s going on is that you really need me to leave you alone.” 

“Are we?” 

“Are we what?” 

“Going to be a thing.” 

“I’d really like to be.” Victor stopped and tugged on Yuri’s hand. He paused and looked up at Victor, his brown eyes sparkling in a completely unfair way. 

“Even though I’m weird and distant and scared of everything?” 

“Cool, because I’m clingy and shallow and not even a little bit good at being comforting.” 

“We are obviously destined to be together.” Yuri gave him a wry smile. 

“Yeah,” he pulled Yuri close for a hug. “This is good,” he said wisely, as Yuri’s wind-blown hair tickled his nose. “ _My_ therapist says that communication is the most important thing in a relationship.” 

“You have a -” Yuri pulled back to look suspiciously at Victor. “Wait, is your therapist just Christophe?” 

Victor shrugged noncommittally. Good advice was good advice, “Shut up, he’s still right.” 

“So, what did Yurio say, before?” 

Victor wrinkled his nose and looked away from Yuri. 

“Sorry, it’s not really my business. You don’t have to -” 

“No, it’s okay. Just keep in mind that insults are how he shows he cares.” 

“Don’t forget violence.” 

“It sounds unhealthy when you put it like that.” Victor found his mind wandering to the curve of Yuri’s back beneath his hands. “He said the he was glad we were working on our bullshit because I was a huge mopey dickhead last week. Then he called you a piglet and said that even though we’re both shit-asses he thinks we deserve to be happy. Then he said to pedal away while we could.” 

“Aw.” 

“I know, right?” 

“Never tell him I said this, but that’s adorable.” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t want my boyfriend to be dismembered and fed to cats.” 

“Boyfriend, huh?” Yuri tipped his head back, offering up that quiet knowing smile of his. 

“Yeah.” 

They broke apart after a moment as a gust of cooler wind blew in off the lake, tossing their hair and stealing their breath as they walked, faster this time, back to the car. They weren’t fast enough to avoid the rain, though. They dashed back hand-in-hand, laughing and shouting in the downpour. There were a handful of picnic shelters in the park where they paused. Yuri pulled Victor to him, his skin shockingly warm beneath his damp t-shirt. He kissed the rain from Victor’s lips and cheeks, tracing kisses down his jawline and neck to bury his face against Victor’s shoulder, shivering. 

“Come on, let’s go dry off.” One more sprint got them back to the station wagon. They swarmed inside and Victor turned the heat as high as he could; it wasn’t a particularly cold day, but Yuri was visibly shivering in his seat. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, just cold,” he replied through chattering teeth. His glasses had fogged up and he was trying to tuck his chin into his collar like a turtle or something. Victor struggled not to laugh as he pulled into the road.

~~ 

The problem with a stick shift, Victor reflected as he drove, was how often he had to release Yuri’s hand to shift. It was only five, but the light was already fading beneath the cloud cover. The heater was doing its job and the car was a warm and sleepy haven beneath the pounding rain. 

”Yuri?”

”Hm?” His voice sounded warm and sleepy and Victor’s thoughts flew to several topics that didn’t have anything to do with avoiding potholes. He hoped his suspension would forgive him. He flinched at a particularly bad one that sounded like it scraped muffler.

”Do you want me to bring you home? Because, if you wanted, I could cook us some dinner.” He hoped the offer sounded casual. 

Yuri yawned cavernously and followed it up with a sneeze. “That sounds nice, but…” he trailed off, gesturing at his wet clothes.

”If that’s the only problem, I can loan you some, but if you’re trying to find a polite way to say no, then I’ll bring you home.”

“No, I would just tell you. Communication, remember?” He stretched, grabbing the back of his headrest and arching his back. Victor tried to keep his eyes on the road, especially when the motion made Yuri’s t-shirt ride up. 

“You seem, I don’t know, relaxed.”

Yuri didn’t say anything for a second and Victor worried that he had already overstepped the boundaries that they were just starting to map. “I guess I am,” he finally said, in a tone that implied that he was as surprised as anyone. “I wonder... Huh.” 

Victor waited for a conclusion, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. “Hm?” 

“Oh. sorry, I was thinking that maybe there’s something to be said for getting all your bullshit out in the open right away. I guess I don’t have to worry what you’ll do when you figure out what a wreck I am. I mean, I still don’t know what you’re thinking, and I figure that eventually you’ll come to your senses, so I’m terrified about that. I know that I’m going to get hurt when you finally run the cost-benefit analysis on me. I mean, I’ve already proven that I’m a bad risk. But since I can’t control when that happens, I mean, I tried -” he shrugged, “I guess I don’t feel like I have to pretend anymore. It’s a huge relief.”

”So, you decided I was a good risk?”

“Not really.”

“Yuri.”

“I decided I’m going to get my heart broken, but I’m already in too deep. I don’t know, somehow, I decided that I wanted to risk it anyway. George Clinton said it was a good idea.” Victor couldn’t fathom what that might mean. Yuri went on, “I don’t want to be dishonest, Vitya: I’m actually really scared. I don’t know how to do this, and that will definitely not be my last meltdown, and I’ll sure I’ll mess it all up, but I decided that I still want to try.”

That seemed like a bleak conclusion to Victor, but Yuri seemed strangely pleased with it. “Well, if it helps, I usually mess things up, too. I’ll probably give you a whole bunch of extra chances.”

“Well, I’ve already used up a couple. I really am sorry about all that.” He leaned forward, extracting the aux cable from the pile of junk in the console and plugged it into his phone. “Do you mind?” 

“Please.” He thought for a second. “Just not, _me_ , okay? It’s weird.” 

Yuri nodded and wriggled back in his seat, fiddling with his phone. After a moment he settled on “Talking Book,” surprising him by quietly singing along to “Sunshine of My Life,” without a hint of self consciousness. He fell silent by the second verse, though, and Victor looked over at a stop light to see his head tipped back against the window, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

Yuri jerked awake when they hit Victor’s driveway. “Was I...Oh God,” he groaned, “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Was I snoring?”

“No. And you only drooled a little.”

“Ugh, too embarrassing.”

“It was very adorable.” Yuri peeked out between the fingers that hid his eyes. Whatever he saw must have convinced him of Victor’s sincerity.

“Oh. Okay.” His face was still red as he unplugged his phone and reached for the handle, frowning at the downpour, “Ready?”

“Yes,” Victor nodded, “Just stay close to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Waits: Emotional Weather Report


End file.
